THE  TASTE  OF  APPLES 


BIHT.  of  CAUF.  .  tOS 


The 
Taste  of  Apples 

By  JENNETTE  LEE 


Author  of  "  Uncle  William,"  "  Happy  Island,"  Etc. 


With  Three  Illustrations 
By  F.  WALTER  TAYLOR 


A.  L  BURT  COMPANY,  PUBLISHERS 

114420  East  Twenty-third  Street       -       -       New  York 

PUBLISHED  BY  ARRANGEMENT  WITH  DODD,  MEAD  &  COMPANY 


COPTKIGHT,   1918  BY 

THE  CURTIS  PUBLISHING  COMPANY, 

COPYRIGHT,  1913.  BY 
DODD,  MEAD  AND  COMPANY, 

Published,  September,  1913 


TO 
GrERALD  STANLEY  LEE 


21.31030 


THE  SHOP  WHERE  NOTHING  COULD  HAPPEN 

THE  light  in  the  little  shop  was  dim.  The 
shoemaker's  fat  assistant  scowled  at  it,  and  got 
up  and  hunted  for  a  match  and  lighted  the  gas- 
jet  on  the  wall.  The  light  sprang  suddenly 
out  on  the  littered  room,  and  the  three  men 
across  the  room,  bending  close  over  a  checker- 
board, looked  up  and  blinked  as  it  flickered 
down.  One  of  them  put  out  his  hand  to  the 
board,  and  held  it  a  minute,  and  drew  it  back 
and  stroked  a  little  grey  fringe  of  beard  that  de- 
pended from  his  chin.  The  other  two  men 
laughed  a  little,  sitting  shrewdly  back;  then  they 
bent  again  to  the  board.  The  fat  assistant 
stitched  glumly  on. 

The  room  was  full  of  dancing  shadows  now. 
They  fell  on  the  scraps  of  leather  on  the  floor 
and  on  dusty  corners  and  windows  and  cobwebs, 
and  they  danced  a  little  on  the  shoemaker's 


2  THE  TASTE  OF  APPLES 

empty  bench,  worn  black  and  shiny  with  the 
polish  of  years,  and  ran  along  his  hat  and  coat, 
hanging  on  the  peg  by  the  door.  The  shoe- 
maker had  left  his  bench  almost  guiltily,  two 
hours  ago,  and  had  stolen  over  to  the  checker- 
board. He  had  not  stirred  since,  except  to 
reach  out  a  thin  hand  to  dispose  of  a  doomed 
man  or  to  checkmate  the  little  grey  beard  that 
wagged  opposite  him.  The  third  man,  a  hand 
on  either  knee,  looked  down,  as  Jove  may  have 
looked  upon  the  Trojans  and  their  enemies,  and 
gave  a  mighty  nod  as  the  battle  went  either 
way. 

The  fat  assistant  took  up  his  awl  and  scowled 
at  it  and  stabbed  it  once  or  twice  in  the  leather, 
and  stuck  it  upright  in  the  bench  beside  him, 
and  drew  another  waxed  needleful  through  the 
holes,  his  mouth  growing  more  and  more  puck- 
ered and  screwed-up,  with  each  heavy  pull 
of  the  waxed  thread  through  the  holes.  He 
glanced  across  at  the  bent  heads  and  got  up, 
fumbling  a  little  at  the  strings  of  his  big  apron, 
and  cast  it  from  him,  and  took  down  his  hat  and 


NOTHING  COULD  HAPPEN          3 

went  darkly  out.  The  three  men  looked  up 
blankly  as  the  little  whiff  of  air  slammed  past 
them.  Then  they  returned  to  the  board,  and 
quiet  settled  on  the  room. 

The  grey  beard  wagged  twice,  once  in  pro- 
test and  once  in  resignation;  he  drew  a  heavy 
sigh.  Then  he  bent  to  the  board,  fingering  the 
pieces  a  little  and  shoving  them  about.  "If  I'd 
'a'  moved  here,  you  wouldn't  'a'  done  it!"  he 
said  triumphantly. 

"Huh!"  said  the  large  man — partly  in  aston- 
ishment, partly  incredulous ;  he  bent  ponderously 
down  to  look. 

The  shoemaker  nodded  slowly  toward  the  grey 
beard  that  perked  out  across  the  board  at  him. 
"I  see  it,  Simon,  after  I'd  moved — I  see  it;  yes, 
you  could  'a'  took  me  if  you'd  moved  that  way." 
The  shoemaker's  thin  fingers  hovered  over  the 
pieces,  setting  the  men  back  in  their  rows.  "We 
might  try  again,  Simon " 

Then  he  looked  up.  The  door  had  opened 
almost  timidly.  The  shoemaker  got  up  and 
went  forward.  The  young  girl  handed  him  a 


4  THE  TASTE  OF  APPLES 

hastily-wrapped  parcel  and  stood  waiting.  The 
shoemaker's  long  fingers  pulled  at  the  string  and 
tore  aside  the  paper — a  pair  of  worn,  girlish 
shoes  lay  in  his  hand.  He  looked  at  them  and 
turned  them  over  on  the  palm  of  his  long,  thin 
hand  and  looked  at  the  girl. 

"Can  they  be  mended,  Mr.  Wickham?"  she 
asked  quickly. 

The  shoemaker  stood  considering  the  worn 
things.  The  flickering  gaslight,  as  he  bent  over 
them,  fell  full  on  his  face.  It  was  a  thin  face, 
with  a  little  lock  of  hair  that  was  not  quite  a 
curl  rising  straight  up  from  the  forehead  and  a 
faintly-grey  moustache  shading  the  quiet  lips; 
the  eyes  followed  the  lines  of  the  shoes  and  his 
fingers  touched  them  here  and  there — then  he 
looked  at  the  girl  with  a  little  smile.  "When  did 
you  want  them'?"  he  asked. 

Her  face  lightened.  "I'm  glad  they  can 
be  mended.  I  thought  they  might  be  too 
bad " 

"Never  too  late  to  mend,"  said  the  old  man 
smiling  and  fingering  the  shoes  almost  as  if 


NOTHING  COULD  HAPPEN          5 

their  very  frailties  pleased  him.  "We'll  put 
new  soles  on  them  and  half -heels,  and  a  little 
patch  here — it  will  hardly  show  when  it  is  done. 
When  do  you  need  them1?"  he  asked  again.  He 
looked  at  her  over  his  light  glasses. 

"Saturday — ?  Could  I  have  them  Satur- 
day?' 

"Saturday  afternoon,"  he  nodded  slowly, 
"about  four  o'clock,  I  should  think.  Yes,  we'll 
get  them  done  for  you." 

He  carried  them  across  to  his  bench  and  the 
girl  went  out.  There  was  a  little  lingering 
tingle  of  the  bell  above  the  door,  but  the  shoe- 
maker did  not  look  up ;  his  eyes  were  on  the  shoes 
in  his  hand,  studying  their  possibilities  ...  he 
was  deaf  to  the  world.  Across  the  room  a  new 
game  of  checkers  had  begun  between  the  grey 
beard  and  Jove,  but  the  shoemaker  did  not  look 
up — a  kind  of  gentle  light  had  come  into  his 
face  and  a  little  line  ran  in  his  forehead,  straight 
up  to  the  lock  of  hair;  so  a  poet  might  scan  his 
lines,  seeking  the  right  word.  .  .  .  The  shoe- 
maker's face  held  the  worn  soles  and  turned 


6  THE  TASTE  OF  APPLES 

them  from  him  and  looked  at  them  and  broke 
into  gentle  singing — a  little  gentle  humming 
beneath  his  breath.  His  hand  reached  out  for 
a  sharp  knife,  and  the  sound  of  softly-cut 
stitches  followed  its  sharp  edge  along  the  sole. 

The  assistant  put  his  head  in  the  door  and  sur- 
veyed the  silent  group  and  came  in — his  face  a 
trifle  lighter  under  its  grime.  He  hung  up  his 
hat  and  crossed  the  room — "Letter  for  ye,"  he 
said.  He  threw  it  down  on  the  bench — but  the 
shoemaker  did  not  look  up,  and  the  softly-rip- 
ping stitches  went  swiftly  on. 

The  assistant  sat  down  and  drew  the  iron  last 
between  his  knees  and  took  up  his  hammer; 
rat-ty-/<2/ — rat-ty-tat-/^/ — rat-ty-/#/ — and  softly 
snipping  stitches — and  somewhere  on  the  wall  a 
clock  ticking  a  little  when  the  hammering  was 
still. 

It  was  a  place  where  nothing  could  ever  hap- 
pen; the  letter  lay  on  the  shoemaker's  bench, 
the  two  men  played  an  eternal  game  of  checkers, 
across  the  room,  the  assistant  made  shoes,  and 
the  shoemaker  with  his  face  to  a  pair  of  shabby 


NOTHING  COULD  HAPPEN          7 

soles  saw  something  beautiful  beyond  them 
emerging  from  the  worn  shapes — something  that 
should  be  as  good  as  new  .  .  .  rat-ty-tat — rat- 
ty-tat-te// 


II 


IT  HAPPENS 

THE  town-clock  struck  six,  and  the  shoemaker 
looked  up,  and  blinked;  the  assistant  with  his 
hammer  half-lifted  for  another  stroke,  laid  it 
down  with  a  little  happy  thud.  The  checker- 
players  stirred  vaguely,  looked  at  the  clock  ab- 
sently and,  with  the  round  black-and-white  spots 
before  them,  went  on  reaching  into  blind  space. 

The  shoemaker's  eye  fell  on  the  letter  and  he- 
took  it  up. 

The  assistant's  eye  followed  it — "From  John, 
ain't  it?"  he  asked. 

"Yes."  The  shoemaker  moved  over  to  the 
gas-jet  and  adjusted  his  glasses  a  little;  he  could 
see  to  cut  the  finest  stitches  in  the  dark — but  not 
a  letter  from  John. 

The  assistant  lingered  a  little.  He  and  John 
had  been  schoolboys  together.  There  might  be 
something  interesting.  John  was  getting  to  be 


IT  HAPPENS  9 

a  big  man.  The  assistant  was  very  fat  and  he 
did  not  understand  exactly  what  it  was  that 
John  was  doing — but  at  school  he  had  licked 
John,  easy — John  was  a  little  fellow  those  days. 
The  assistant  played  with  the  strings  of  his 
apron. 

The  shoemaker  spelled  out  the  words  with 
gentle,  half-moving  lips,  and  the  checker-players 
pushed  back  the  board  and  got  up.  The  big 
man  straightened  himself  in  sections — "Got  a 
letter?"  he  asked  kindly. 

The  grey  beard  moved  nimbly.  "I  beat 
him!"  he  said;  "I  beat  him  that  time!" 

The  big  man  smiled  at  him  tolerantly. 

The  shoemaker  lowered  his  glasses  with  his 
finger  and  looked  over  the  top  at  them.  "A  let- 
ter from  John,"  he  said. 

"Uh-huh— How's  John  getting  on?"  The 
big  man  was  genial. 

But  the  shoemaker  had  returned  to  the  letter. 
"Well— well !"  he  said  softly.  "Well— well!" 

The  room  quickened  a  little.  The  assistant 
put  down  his  hat  and  waited. 


10          THE  TASTE  OF  APPLES 

The  shoemaker  took  off  his  glasses  and  rubbed 
them  slowly  and  looked  at  the  other  three 
with  a  little  quiet  smile — "John  wants  me  to  go 
to  Europe,"  he  said. 

"Go  where?"  said  Simon  vaguely.  He 
rubbed  his  little  beard  and  gulped. 

The  shoemaker  nodded.  "Right  off;  he  says 
he's  got  the  passage  engaged;  he  wants  us  to  go 
the  fifteenth — a  week  from  Saturday."  His 
eye  fell  on  the  shoes  lying  side  by  side  on  his 
bench  and  he  smiled  at  them.  "I  must  hurry 
my  shoes." 

"You  going*?"  asked  the  big  man. 

"I  think  we'll  go — yes — if  John  wants  us  to. 
I've  always  thought  I'd  like  to  go — abroad " 

"Well!"  said  Simon.  He  sat  down  a  little 
quickly.  "Kind  o'  sudden,  ain't  it — your  goin' 
abroad!" 

The  assistant  scraped  a  foot  along  the  floor 
and  the  shoemaker  looked  at  him  and  smiled. 
"Do  you  think  you  can  manage  the  business, 
Samuel — for  a  year  or  so1?" 

"A  year!"     The  assistant  gulped,  and  looked 


IT  HAPPENS  11 

at  the  row  of  awls  stuck  in  their  leather  straps 
along  the  window-ledge.  "You  goin'  to  be 
gone  a  year?"  he  repeated  dully.  The  very 
awls  looked  different,  somehow. 

"John  says  a  year.  Here  is  what  he  says." 
He  read  it  out  slowly 

I  want  you  and  Mother  to  stay  six  months  or  so 
in  England.  You'll  know  the  language  and  can  get 
along  all  right  there ;  and  then,  next  summer,  I  am 
to  have  three  months — my  first  vacation  in  ten  years, 
you  know — and  I'll  come  over  and  join  you,  and 
we'll  go  to  the  continent  together. 

"John  can  speak  several  languages,"  said  the 
shoemaker,  breaking  off  with  gentle  pride.  "He 
learned  them  at  college — German  and  French 
and  Italian  and  Spanish.  I  only  know  one 
language." 

"It's  enough  to  say  all  you  can  think  of, 

too "  said  the  big  man.  He  was  a  little 

moved  on  his  base  by  this  sudden  irruption  of 
travel. 

The  shoemaker  looked  about  him.  "I  must 
go  and  tell  Mother,"  he  said;  "she'll  want  to  get 


12          THE  TASTE  OF  APPLES 

used  to  it."  He  nodded  kindly  to  the  fat  as- 
sistant, who  was  staring  at  the  row  of  awls,  his 
thick  under-lip  moving  in  and  out  slowly. 
"You  think  about  it,  Samuel.  It  won't  be  so 
bad  when  you  think  it  over — you  can  do  it." 

"Oh,  yes,  you  can  do  it,"  said  the  big  man  re- 
assuringly. "I'll  look  in  and  advise  you  about 
it,  every  day  or  two." 

"I  beat  him,  that  last  game,"  said  Simon  hap- 
pily. "You  see,  I " 

But  the  shoemaker  had  put  on  his  hat  and 
was  gone.  The  big  man  was  already  looming 
away  down  the  dusk  of  the  street,  and  the  as- 
sistant stood  with  one  hand  on  the  gas-jet,  ready 
to  shut  up  shop. 

Simon  skipped  out  into  the  dusk.  The  as- 
sistant closed  the  door  and  locked  it  and  turned 
slowly  away.  Over  the  door  the  faded  sign, 

ANTHONY  WICKHAM 

MAKER    AND    MENDER    OF    SHOES 

looked  out  faintly  on  the  half-lit  street.  The 
sign  had  hung  there  thirty  years,  worn  by 


IT  HAPPENS  13 

wind  and  rain  and  pointing  the  way  inside  to 
the   low   bench   where   Anthony   Wickham   sat 
stitching  on   the   worn-out  shoes   of  Bolton — 
making  them  "good  as  new." 

The  fat  assistant  wagged  his  head  distrust- 
fully and  plodded  down  the  street  ...  his 
round,  rolling  gait  bearing  him  on.  "I  can't  do 

it "  he  mumbled.     "I  ain't  fit!     I  can't  do 

fine  work  like  he  can." 

And  overhead  the  stars  twinkled  out — on  the 
assistant,  and  on  Simon  scurrying  home  through 
the  dusk,  swelling  with  happy  pride,  and  on  the 
big  man  who  did  not  care  that  he  was  beaten, 
and  on  Anthony,  maker  and  mender  of  shoes, 
going  slowly  under  the  stars,  looking  up  at  them 
now  and  then,  and  looking  around  him.  Thirty 
years  he  had  waited,  stitching  his  vision  into 
leather  and  thread — and  now  the  great  world 
door  swung  softly  open  before  him.  .  .  . 


Ill 


MOTHER 

HE  laid  the  letter  on  the  table  and  looked  at  her 
with  a  long,  slow,  happy  smile. 

She  took  it  up  swiftly — "From  John!"  she 
said.  She  eyed  it  a  minute  and  laid  it  down. 
"You  must  have  your  supper  first." 

She  bustled  about,  carrying  things  to  the  ta- 
ble, talking  briskly  as  she  moved.  She  was  a 
little  woman,  her  head  barely  reaching  the  shoe- 
maker's shoulder  when  she  stood  still  beside  him 
for  a  minute;  but  when  she  moved  she  seemed 
to  rise  on  little  springs  as  if  suddenly,  all  over, 
she  was  set  free. 

Anthony  watched  her  with  his  quiet  smile  as 
she  came  and  went  in  her  flittings.  "Sit  down, 
Mother,"  he  said,  "you've  got  everything  we 
need." 

"Yes,"  a  little  breathless  with  achievement, 

"it's  ready  now — as  soon  as  I  take  out  my  pie !" 

14 


MOTHER  15 

She  opened  the  oven  door  and  looked  in  cau- 
tiously and  took  out  a  fragrant  pie. 

Anthony's  eye  followed  it.  "Apple?"  he 
asked. 

She  nodded  and  set  it  slowly  on  the  table. 
"It  got  done  a  little  mite  too  much,"  she  said. 
She  was  looking  regretfully  at  the  brown,  mot- 
tled crust. 

"Just  about  right  for  me,"  said  Anthony. 

Her  face  relaxed.  "Men-folks' 11  eat  pie — 
apple-pie — no  matter  how  it's  done,"  she  said. 
She  poured  out  the  tea,  one  eye  on  the  letter  be- 
side. "What  does  he  say*?"  she  asked. 

"Good  news,"  said  Anthony.  He  sipped  his 
tea  tentatively  and  watched  her,  smiling. 

She  took  up  the  letter  and  began  on  it — and 
laid  it  down — and  looked  at  him.  "John's 
crazy!"  she  said.  Then,  after  a  minute — :'I 
don't  want  to  go!" 

"You'll  like  it,"  said  Anthony. 

"To  go  abroad !  I  should  hate  to  go  abroad !" 
she  said  swiftly. 

"Why,  Mother!" 


16          THE  TASTE  OF  APPLES 

"Don't  talk  to  me,  Anthony! — I  should  hate 
it.  You  ready  for  your  pie1?"  She  cut  a  gen- 
erous piece  and  put  it  on  his  plate  and  watched 
critically  as  his  mouth  closed  on  the  first 
morsel. 

He  nodded  slowly.     "Just  right,  Mother." 

A  little  smile  quivered  on  her  face.  "You 
know  I  shouldn't  like  it,  don't  you,  Anthony — 
going  abroad?" 

"It  takes  time — to  get  used  to  going  abroad." 
He  was  looking  wistfully  at  the  letter. 

"I  shall  stay  right  here — "  she  said,  "and  save 
the  money.  ...  You  can  go,"  she  added, 
looking  at  him. 

He  shook  his  head  slowly.  "I  can't  go  with- 
out you,  Mother." 

There  was  silence  between  them.  The  canary 
under  his  blue  cloth,  settled  down  for  the  night, 
chirped  a  little;  but  there  was  no  response. 
Anthony  waited  patiently  for  the  workings  of 
the  feminine  mind. 

When  she  had  finished  the  dishes  she  came 
and  sat  down  beside  him.  A  little  fire  glowed 


MOTHER  17 

in  the  grate.  .  .  .  She  slipped  her  hand  under 
the  thin  one  lying  along  the  arm  of  the  chair. 

"John  will  be  disappointed,"  she  said  softly. 

"Yes."     He  patted  the  hand  a  little. 

She  looked  into  the  fire.  "He  ought  to  get 
married,"  she  said. 

"Give  him  time,"  answered  the  shoemaker. 

"He's  never  saved  a  cent,"  she  said  sternly, 
"and  now  to  waste  two  thousand  dollars — on 
us!  I'd  rather  he'd  get  married !" 

He  patted  the  hand  again.  "You  can't  ex- 
actly get  married — like  that — by  handing 
around  two  thousand  dollars,"  he  said. 

"I  know,  well  enough,  what  I  mean,  Anthony, 
and  you  know,  too.  .  .  .  There  must  be  some 
nice  girls — "  She  studied  the  fire. 

"Lydia  Bacon  *?"  suggested  the  shoemaker. 

"Anthony— Wickham!     For  John!" 

The  shoemaker  chuckled — a  quiet  little 
chuckle,  like  the  coals  falling  in  the  grate.  "Do 
you  know  anybody  that  would  suit  you  better 
than  Lydia*?"  he  asked  respectfully. 

She  paused.     "No-o— "  she  admitted.     "But 


i8          THE  TASTE  OF  AEPLES 

that's  no  reason  you  should  think  of  her !"  She 
sniffed  at  the  glowing  coals  softly.  "We  will 
write  him  to-night  and  tell  him  to  save  his  money 
and  get  married — and  take  some  comfort  in 
life!"  she  finished  up. 

"Very  well,  Mother.  You  write  him.  Tell 
him  just  how  you  feel  about  it." 

So  the  letter  went,  and  the  answer  came 
promptly  back.  The  tickets  were  bought,  John 
wrote.  But  if  they  really  did  not  want  them  he 
would  sell  them  at  a  sacrifice — underlined — 
and  give  the  money  to  the  Baptist  Church. 

"To  the  Baptist  Church4?"  she  quivered  with 
anxious  face.  "Doesn't  he  remember  we  are 
Congregationalists  *?" 

"He  wants  us  to  go,"  said  Anthony.  "He 
isn't  thinking  about  much  else,  I  guess." 

The  letter  had  been  addressed  to  Mr.  Anthony 
Wickham  and  had  come  to  the  shop.  But  the 
following  day  a  letter  came  to  Mrs.  Anthony 
Wickham,  which  the  shoemaker  did  not  see. 

She  read  it,  standing  by  the  stove  in  her  sunny 


MOTHER  19 

kitchen,  the  canary  trilling  a  little  among  his 
geraniums  and  plants  in  the  window. 

"I've  been  thinking  about  Father,"  the  letter 
read — "There  was  something  about  him  that 
last  time  I  was  home,  something  about  his  face 
that  set  me  thinking,  Mother.  .  .  ."  She  had 
slipped  the  bit  of  paper  inside  her  dress,  and 
when  Anthony  came  home  at  night  she  had  gone 
up  to  him  and  put  her  hands  on  his  shoulders  and 
looked  up  at  him  a  long  minute.  Then  she  had 
lifted  her  face  to  kiss  him. 

"I  don't  know  where  I  can  buy  a  good  steam- 
er-trunk," she  said. 


IV 


GETS    READY 

THERE  was  hurry  and  scurry  and  debate.  The 
canary  must  be  boarded  out,  and  the  geraniums 
and  plants  taken  care  of,  and  the  attic  and  cel- 
lar scrubbed  from  top  to  toe.  Upstairs  and 
downstairs  and  in  my  lady's  chamber,  there  was 
bustle  and  confusion  and  the  clutter  of  house- 
hold gods. 

Through  it  all,  Mother — her  head  tied  up  in 
a  large  towel,  a  magic  broom-wand  in  her  hand 
— moved  serene.  Order  must  be  restored  by  the 
fourteenth;  and  precisely  at  four  o'clock  of  the 
fourteenth  the  house  was  ready.  It  had  been 
rented  to  the  new  milkman  who  had  just  moved 
to  Bolton  and  had  one  child  and  a  nice  little 
wife — there  were  three  loaves  of  bread  and  a 
nice  pie  in  the  pantry  for  the  milkman  and  his 
nice  wife  and  baby,  a  little  heap  of  kindlings  in 
the  shed,  and  the  bed  with  its  starched  pillow- 

20 


GETS  READY  21 

shams  and  white  spread  was  made  up  ready  for 
them  in  the  chamber  overhead. 

Once  she  had  surrendered,  Mother  had  taken 
entire  charge  of  the  campaign;  she  had  made  it 
her  own.  Anthony  was  not  allowed  to  pack  his 
trunk  or  to  select  the  clothes  he  should  wear. 

"You  take  care  of  the  shop,"  she  had  said, 
fairly  bustling  him  out,  "I'll  see  to  things 
here." 

So  Anthony  had  sat  quietly  stitching  away — 
his  new  hopes  and  new  plans  into  the  old  leather 
and  soles. 

There  had  been  a  sudden  influx  of  trade  when 
the  Bolton  "Herald"  announced  that  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Anthony  Wickham  were  sailing  on  the  fif- 
teenth. All  the  old  shoes  and  slippers  and  boots 
in  Bolton  poured  in  upon  him.  They  lay 
heaped  up  between  him  and  the  fat  assistant; 
and  the  assistant  scowled  at  them  and  drew  his 
heavy  needle  in  and  out. 

"You  couldn't  finish  'em  by  Christmas — not 
if  you  worked  nights !"  he  said,  resentfully. 

"I'm  picking  out  the  worst  ones,  Samuel," 


22          THE  TASTE  OF  APPLES 

said  the  shoemaker,  bending  to  the  pile  and  se- 
lecting, ruefully,  a  crazy  old  slipper.  "These 
slippers  of  Mrs.  Judge  Fox's,  now — I've  mended 
these  twenty  years,  I  should  think — first  tops 
and  then  bottoms  and  then  tops  and  bottoms 
both.  ...  I  tell  Mis'  Fox,  slippers  are  like 
folks — wearin'  a  little  here  and  a  little  there, 
and  getting  new  stuff  all  the  while  as  they  go 
along — and  growing  a  little  bigger,  too,"  he  said 
softly,  smiling  down  at  the  queer  shapes. 

Samuel  stared  at  them  gloomily.  "You  can't 
do  anything  with  Mrs.  Judge  Fox's,  ever — chuck 
'em!" 

But  the  shoemaker  smiled  at  them  still,  and 
ran  his  fingers  along  their  faults  slowly — "I 
think  we  can — do  a  little — a  little  something — 
with  them — "  he  said  musingly,  and  the  old 
leather  seemed  to  respond  to  the  touch  and  lift 
itself  a  little.  "They've  lost  their  shape — that's 
all,  Samuel.  Plenty  of  wear — plenty " 

He  murmured  indistinct  words  and  drew  out 
the  insoles  and  peered  at  them  and  breathed  a 
little  breath,  and  fell  to  work;  his  thin  fingers 


GETS  READYf  23 

dwelt  upon  the  ugly  lines  and  drew  away  with 
deft  touch,  and  the  bulging  old  slippers  caught 
the  idea,  and  seemed  to  forget  Mrs.  Judge  Fox 
and  her  burden  of  flesh — and  became,  once  more, 
slippers.  The  shoemaker  laid  them  down  on  the 
bench  beside  him  with  a  little,  happy  gesture, 
and  glanced  across  at  the  assistant. 

Samuel  gave  a  grudging  look.  "Yes— 
you've  done  'em.  But  if  I  could  do  fine  work 
like  you  can,  I  wouldn't  waste  myself  on  a  pair 
of  old  things  like  them !" 

Now,  it  happened  that  Mrs.  Judge  Fox  died 
that  year,  and  while  she  lay  dying  the  slippers 
stood  by  her  bed,  and  her  eye  fell  on  them  and 
she  half  reached  down  a  hand  to  them.  "They 
lasted  my  time  out — "  she  said,  half-whispering. 
"I'm  glad  they  last — "  And  she  forgot  to  say 
good-bye  to  the  old  Judge  who  sat  by  her  cry- 
ing his  few,  hard  tears.  .  .  .  The  dying  think 
of  trivial  things. 

The  fat  assistant  worked  on  with  stodgy  un- 
ending patience  and  gloom,  but  the  pile  on  the 
floor  between  them  did  not  diminish;  it  grew 


24  THE  TASTE  OF  APPLES 

ever  larger,  and  each  morning  more  shoes  were 
added  to  it — until  even  Anthony  Wickham  ac- 
knowledged that  it  would  not  be  possible  to 
finish  them. 

And  not  only  shoes  took  up  the  time.  There 
was  consultation  and  advice  to  be  gone  through 
with  also.  Anthony  came  at  last  to  sitting  with 
the  geography  open  on  the  bench  beside  him  and 
talking  with  one  finger  on  the  page  and  one  on 
his  last.  The  checker-board  in  the  comer  grew 
thick  with  dust.  The  big  man  gave  advice, 
and  Simon  questioned  it — rubbing  his  little  grey 
beard;  and  politics,  sociology,  race  lines,  lan- 
guage, etiquette,  seasickness,  foreign  money, 
feeing,  fleas,  boarding  houses,  horse-meat  and 
snails  for  food  were  carefully  threshed  out  and 
disposed  of. 

The  big  man  sat,  ponderous  and  wise,  and 
gave  advice  on  all.  Simon  skipped  nimbly  from 
peak  to  peak  of  incredulity.  And  the  shoe- 
maker lifted  his  smiling  glance  or  pushed  up  his 
spectacles  and  wrinkled  his  brow  at  the  infor- 
mation they  gave  him.  "I  think  Mother  will 


GETS  READY  25 

see  about  that,"  he  would  say  when  the  battle 
waxed  too  hot  for  him. 

There  were  other  visitors  who  came  with  ad- 
vice— and  shoes. 

The  Episcopal  rector  brought  a  pair  of  thin, 
low  ties  and  seated  himself  in  a  casual  chair 
while  Anthony  inspected  them.  He  studied 
them,  and  turned  them  in  his  hand  and  looked 
up,  smiling — as  if  at  some  pleasant  discovery. 

"You  run  them  over  in  the  heel,"  he  said, 
pointing  to  the  iron  nails  that  protruded  at  the 
back  through  the  low  heels,  shining  and  blunt. 

"Yes,  I  walk  a  great  deal,"  said  the  Rector. 
"I  like  exercise.  Walking  is  my  favourite 
method  of  locomotion.  .  .  .  Um — you  do  not 
walk — much V" 

Anthony  shook  his  head.  "Home  and  back 
twice  a  day  is  my  walking,"  he  said. 

"Yes — yes — of  course.  But  I  hear  you  are 
going  quite  a  journey — quite  a  journey." 

Anthony  looked  up,  pleased  and  friendly, 
and  the  conversation  glided  into  the  well-worn 
groove — how  to  travel,  where  to  travel,  what  to 


26  THE  TASTE  OF  APPLES 

wear,  what  to  see,  the  pictures  one  must  not  miss, 
and  the  cathedrals.  .  .  . 

The  fat  assistant  was  having  a  liberal  educa- 
tion without  stirring  from  his  leather-strewn 
bench.  In  spite  of  his  best  intentions,  his  ears 
were  filled  with  Madonnas  ant^-tombs  and  gate* 
ways  that  he  could  have  recited  in  his  dreams  if 
he  had  been  pressed. 

The  Rector  sent  in  another  pair  of  shoes  and 
a  list  of  Madonnas  that  Mother  must  be  sure  to 
see;  and  Mother  tucked  them  away  in  the  little 
black  reticule  that  was  fast  becoming  as  crowded 
as  the  assistant's  head,  and  went  on  with  her 
work.  The  Baptist  minister  made  out  a  bicycle 
trip  in  lower  Sussex — one  that  he  had  read  in 
a  book — and  the  pastor  of  the  Presbyterian 
Church  contributed  notes  on  the  orthodox 
churches  of  London. 

The  shoemaker  had  become  a  person  of  im- 
portance. A  prospective  trip  to  Europe  while 
not  the  same  as  the  ordinary  Divinity  school 
education,  was  in  a  way  its  social  equivalent. 
A  shoemaker  who  proposed  to  go  abroad — or 


GETS  READY  27 

whose  son  proposed  it  for  him — was  not  the 
same  as  a  shoemaker  who  merely  made  and 
mended  shoes;  he  became  an  opportunity. 

All  his  life  Anthony  Wickham  had  known  all 
Bolton  by  its  feet — there  was  hardly  a  man, 
woman  or  child  in  Bolton  whom  he  would  not 
have  known  by  their  shoes,  there  was  scarcely 
one  that  he  would  not  have  known  in  the  dark 
by  the  mere  feeling  of  their  feet  under  the  touch 
of  his  thin  fingers.  Many  of  them  he  had  fol- 
lowed from  boyhood  to  manhood,  seeing  the 
quick,  boyish  soles  broaden  and  harden  and 
throw  out  little  callous  lumps — that  must  be 
reckoned  with  if  one  made  a  shoe  that  should 
fit.  He  knew  them  all.  Sometimes  it  seemed 
to  him  that  the  character  of  men  lies  in  their  feet 
rather  than  in  their  heads;  and  he  always 
looked  first,  a  long  slow  glance,  at  a  man's  shoes — 
before  he  lifted  his  gentle  eyes  to  the  face  above 
them  and  read  what  was  hidden  there. 

In  and  out  through  the  little  shop,  for  thirty 
years,  Bolton  had  come  and  gone,  and  the  little 
bell  overhead  had  tingled  for  them;  children 


28  THE  TASTE  OF  APPLES 

with  ball  or  hoop  and  a  pair  of  shoes — they  had 
skipped  in,  and  out;  old  men  and  women,  bent 
with  saving  and  distrust;  for  the  rich  and  the 
poor  and  the  just  and  the  unjust  the  little  bell 
had  tingled;  and  each  of  them  had  held  out  to 
Anthony  Wickham,  maker  and  mender,  a  pair 
of  old  shoes.  To  them  all  he  was  the  man  who 
mended  them. 

But  now  he  had  become  a  certain  Mr.  Wick- 
ham — not  quite  "our  respected  fellow  towns- 
man," perhaps,  but  a  "very  intelligent  man." 
It  had  not  seemed  strange  to  Bolton  that  he 
should  save  and  scrimp  and  send  his  son  to  col- 
lege— on  scraps  and  shreds  of  leather,  as  it  were. 
It  was  the  good  old  New  England  custom — to 
give  the  boy  a  chance — and  no  one  found  it 
worth  a  comment  or  thought.  But  that  the  son 
should  turn  about  and  send  his  parents  abroad! 
This  was  at  once  picturesque  and  strange — and 
the  pile  of  shoes  on  the  floor  grew  higher,  the 
scowl  on  Samuel's  countenance  deepened;  and 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Anthony  Wickham  took  the  four 
o'clock  train  for  New  York. 


TO    MEET    JOHN 

"I  DO  hope  John  will  meet  us."  It  was  the 
tenth  time  she  had  hoped  it,  and  for  the  tenth 
time  Anthony  had  assured  her  that  John  would 
surely  be  there — he  wouldn't  miss  them. 

The  train  drew  into  the  long  shed.  The  pas- 
sengers descended  and  John  gathered  the  little 
woman  under  his  arm. 

"I  knew  you'd  be  here !"  she  said,  triumphant. 

"Yes,  I'm  here.  How  about  your  baggage*?" 
He  squeezed  the  hand  a  little  and  tucked  it 
closer  under  his  arm. 

Anthony  produced  checks  and  tags  and  papers, 
and  the  three  mingled  with  the  crowd  pouring 
across  the  platform. 

Half  an  hour  later  they  were  in  a  great  hotel, 
high  up  in  the  air,  facing  each  other  and  talk- 
ing. John  had  arranged  everything,  it  seemed; 

he    had    provided    Baedekers    and    handbooks 

29 


30  THE  TASTE  OF  APPLES 

without  end.  They  were  to  go  first  to  a  little 
English  hotel  near  Trafalgar  Square — kept  in 
the  old  fashion ;  he  gave  them  the  address,  which 
Mother  tucked  carefully  away  in  her  bag.  They 
were  to  stay  at  this  hotel  as  long  as  they  liked. 
Later  they  could  look  up  rooms,  if  they  wanted; 
it  would  be  a  way  of  seeing  London — looking 
up  rooms. 

"Rooms  will  be  cheaper,  won't  they1?"  said 
Mother. 

"Cheaper?  Yes — See  here,  Mother,  I  don't 
want  you  to  think  about  things  being  cheaper; 
just  go  ahead — and  have  a  good  time  not  think- 
ing about  things  being  cheaper." 

She  nodded  at  him  sagely.  "I  don't  need  to 
spend  all  your  money — to  have  a  good  time," 
she  said. 

He  laughed  out.  "Well,  I  do.  I  mean  to 
spend  part  of  it  right  here  in  New  York.  Now 
what  would  you  like  to  see  best,  Mother — of  all 
New  York — before  you  sail?" 

"Grant's  tomb,"  said  Mother  promptly. 

"Mother!" 


TO  MEET  JOHN  31 

"Grant's  tomb,"  she  repeated  firmly. 
"We've  got  to  see  a  good  many  tombs  over 
there,"  she  touched  the  little  black  bag,  "and  I 
want  to  see  how  ours  compare." 

"All  right — you  shall  see  all  the  tombs  in 
New  York!  But  you  can't  see  them  to-night." 
He  thought  a  minute.  "How  would  you  like 
to  go  to  a  play?" 

She  glanced  quickly  at  Anthony.  The  shoe- 
maker returned  the  look,  smiling.  "We're 
travelling,  Mother,"  he  said. 

But  she  shook  her  head.  "You  can  travel  all 
you  like,  Anthony — and  John  can  travel !  I 
shall  stay  right  here!"  She  took  firm  hold  of 
the  arms  of  her  chair. 

Anthony  chuckled  a  little. 

"But  a  play's  all  right,  Mother!  There's  a 
good  one  at  The  Lyceum — one  of  Barrie's. 
Barrie  wrote  The  Little  Minister,'  you  know,'* 
said  John. 

But  Mother  swam  serenely  away.  "I  don't 
feel  like  seeing  a  play,"  she  said.  "How  much 
does  it  cost*?" 


32  THE  TASTE  OF  APPLES 

Anthony  interposed  a  gentle  voice.  "I  don't 
think  you'll  get  Mother  started  to-night,  John. 
But  you  and  I  might  go *?" 

Her  son  looked  at  her,  and  she  smiled  back 
happily.  "That's  right!  You  and  Father  go! 
Then  you  can  tell  me  about  it  at  breakfast.  I'd 
like  that  better  than  going  myself." 

Her  face  was  a  little  guilty  under  its  meek- 
ness, and  there  was  a  twinkle  in  her  son's  eye  as 
he  bent  and  kissed  her. 

Mother's  economies  had  always  amused  him 
even  as  a  small  boy  in  trousers  too  long  for 
him,  and  later  as  a  big  boy  in  trousers  too  short 
for  him.  There  was  always  a  little  artistic 
flourish  that  went  with  Mother's  economies  that 
set  them  in  a  class  by  themselves.  She  econo- 
mised for  sheer  love  of  it  ...  the  money  she 
saved  was  a  mere  by-product. 

But  he  looked  a  little  meaningly  at  her  as  he 
said,  "I  want  the  trip  to  be  a  real  change  for 
you — and  for  Father." 

"It's  going  to  be  a  change — a  terrible  change, 
for  both  of  us,  John,"  she  said  cheerfully. 


TO  MEET  JOHN  33 

s'Now  you  go  and  get  ready  for  your  play,  and 
I'll  fix  things  a  little." 

She  bustled  about,  unpacking  their  bags  and 
making  the  rooms  homelike  for  the  night. 

The  bathroom  appalled  her  at  first.  She  had 
tiptoed  in  and  looked  at  it,  and  came  out  with 
sober  face.  It  was  only  when  John  assured  her 
that  there  were  thousands  of  them  in  New  York 
— that  in  this  particular  hotel  you  would  have 
hard  work  to  get  a  room  without  a  bath,  that 
she  had  accepted  it.  But  once  accepted,  she 
revelled  in  it.  She  arranged  tooth-brushes  and 
soap,  and  went  in  and  out  merely  to  look 
again  on  the  porcelain-lined  elegance  and 
comfort. 

To  Anthony  the  elegance  seemed  to  come  as 
a  matter  of  course.  His  thin  figure  seemed  to 
grow  a  little  taller  and  the  forward  droop  of 
his  shoulders  lifted  itself.  The  son  watched 
him  with  wistful  eyes.  He  had  always  known 
that  his  father  was  not  like  other  men,  quite. 
Sometimes  he  would  wake  in  the  night  and  see 
the  thin,  distinguished  figure  bending  over  its 


34 

pair  of  shoes,  stitching  steadily — and  it  cut  him 

like  a  knife. 

John  was  a  big  man  and  the  place  that  was 
making  for  him  in  the  world  of  iron  and  steel 
was  bigger  than  most  people  knew;  but  he  had 
only  one  wish — to  give  to  Anthony  Wickham 
the  chance  of  life  that  he  had  missed.  .  .  .  He 
might  have  grasped  his  chance — the  son  knew 
the  story  and  was  proud  of  it — how  he  had  taken 
the  first  thing  at  hand  when  his  father  died  and 
had  helped  brothers  and  sisters,  one  after  the 
other,  to  an  education — stitching  until  he  could 
not  stop.  A  man  does  not  change  at  sixty  years. 
And  John  Wickham,  as  he  grew  up,  had  it  al- 
ways in  mind — some  day  his  father  should  take 
a  rest.  .  .  .  He  looked  at  him  now,  leaning 
back  against  the  tawdry  hotel  chair,  his  hands 
a  little  relaxed,  his  eyes  half-closed — the  face 
had  the  quietness  that  goes  with  strength,  a 
quiet,  quizzical  face  that  had  looked  on  the 
world,  without  judging  it,  for  sixty  years. 

When  his  son  looked  away  his  eyes  were  filled 


TO  MEET  JOHN  35 

with  quick  tears.     He  got  up  and  went  over  to 
his  mother  and  touched  her  gently. 

"I'll  get  the  tickets,  and  we'll  have  supper 
sent  up  here,"  he  said;  "it  will  seem  like  home." 


VI 

VAUDEVILLE 

THE  Broadway  night  hummed  and  sparkled 
and  flashed  its  bulbs  at  them — taxis  flew  past 
unendingly — the  crowd  pushed  a  little,  and 
swayed,  and  caught  a  rhythm  beating,  far  be- 
neath, and  swung  to  it — for  no  man  liveth  to 
himself  and  no  man  dieth  to  himself.  .  .  .  An- 
thony Wickham  touched  his  son's  arm — "So 
many  feet!"  he  said  quietly,  smiling. 

And  the  son  smiled  back — "And  all  going!" 
he  said.  "Do  you  like  it,  Father*?" 

But  Anthony's  eyes  were  on  the  crowd — 
chatter  and  hum,  the  touch  of  feet  on  stone,  the 
flitter  of  feet  and  flowing  tide  and  the  look  of 
swift-turning  eyes  .  .  .  and  a  great  white 
light  above — below — around.  The  son  slipped 
a  hand  beneath  his  arm  and  they  moved  as  a 
unit  in  the  swinging  mass ;  the  crowd  drew  them, 
sucked  them  in,  and  they  opened  to  it — the 

36 


VAUDEVILLE  37 

great  pulse  swinging  them,  lifting  them,  the 
mighty,  thrilling  human  pulse  and  a  thousand 
trampling  feet  on  the  pavements. 

"Here  we  are!"  said  the  son. 

They  had  turned  into  a  great  entrance  at  the 
left,  and  went  up  the  long,  lighted  stairs. 

"It's  vaudeville,"  said  John;  "I  thought  some 
of  it  would  interest  you." 

"Everything  interests  me,"  said  Anthony 
Wickham. 

They  had  passed  through  softly-swinging 
doors  at  the  top  and  were  looking  down  into  the 
half-lighted  house,  with  the  dimness  and  shad- 
owy forms  here  and  there. 

"We're  early,"  said  John.  "You'll  have  a 
chance  to  see  them  come  in.  You'll  like 
that1?" 

"I  shall  like  to  see  them  come  in — and  I  shall 
like  to  get  my  breath,"  said  Anthony. 

"Did  we  come  too  fast 2"  His  son  looked  at 
him  quickly. 

"Not  too  fast  for  my  legs,  I  guess — but  a  lit- 
tle fast  for  my  head " 


38  THE  TASTE  OF  APPLES 

"I  know.  You  have  to  get  geared  to  it.  I 
didn't  think!" 

"That's  what  you  call  it — geared  to  it*?"  He 
held  the  words  with  pleased  interest. 

"Like  a  machine,  you  know — high  gear  and 
low  gear " 

"I  see.  New  York  takes  a  rather  high  gear, 
doesn't  it,  Son?" 

"Rather  high,  I  should  think,"  assented  John. 
"There  are  people,  you  know,  who  think  it's  too 
high,  people  who  won't  live  here  at  all — they 
come  on  visits!" 

"Like  me,"  said  Anthony. 

"Not  like  you,"  said  the  son  quickly.  "You 
were  a  part  of  it — *?"  He  was  looking  at  him, 
smiling  through  the  dimness. 

And  Anthony  caught  the  look  and  held  it. 
"I  felt  as  if  I  were  the  whole  of  it,"  he  said, 
smiling,  "the  whole  crowd,  you  know !" 

"Yes,  I  know.  That's  the  fine  thing  about  a 
crowd — gives  you  such  a  new,  big  feeling.  I 
know — I've  felt  it  myself.  ...  I  want  to  tell 


VAUDEVILLE  39 

you  something,  Father "  He  settled  a  little 

in  his  seat  and  bent  nearer  to  him.  "There's 
something  I  want  you  to  do  for  me,  over  there, 
in  London." 

Anthony  smiled  a  little.  "Better  ask 
Mother,  wouldn't  we*?"  he  said. 

"Mother  can't  do  it,"  said  John  quickly, 
" — It's  one  of  the  few  things  Mother  couldn't 
do.  But  she  would  spoil  this.  She  mustn't  even 
know."  He  looked  at  him. 

"Very  well."     The  shoemaker  waited. 

"It's  about  Wallace — Wallace  Tilton,  you 

know "  said  John.  "I'm  worried  about 

him." 

"About  Wally — Tilton Where  is  he 

now*?"  asked  Anthony. 

"He's  in  London — and  I  guess  he's  going  the 
pace  over  there." 

"He  always  was  hard  on  his  shoes,"  said  An- 
thony smiling. 

"Well,  he's  hard  on  them  now.  The  Com- 
pany's beginning  to  take  notice.  They  won't 


40  THE  TASTE  OF  APPLES 

say  anything;  but  presently  somebody  else  will 
be  in  Wally's  shoes — unless  we  can  stop  him." 
He  was  looking  at  his  father. 

Anthony  looked  about  him  at  the  great 
vaguely-lighted  place  with  its  tiers  rising  to  the 
roof.  "What  can  I  do,  John*?"  he  asked. 

"I  don't  know,  Father.  But  if  Wallace  Til- 
ton  goes  to  the  bad,  I'll  never  forgive  myself. 
He  gave  me  my  start,  you  know.  I  couldn't 
stand  it  to  go  on  prospering  and  have  Wallace 
Tilton  mud!" 

The  lights  flashed  up  around  them,  the  or- 
chestra tuned  a  little — crowds  streamed  in, 
down  the  aisle — slamming  seats,  flying  ushers, 
up  the  aisle  and  back.  The  orchestra  broke  out 
into  a  gay  little  tune — everybody  talked — the 
fire  curtain  rolled  slowly  up.  Anthony  Wick- 
ham  watched  it  all  with  slow,  smiling  eyes;  and 
his  son  watched  Anthony  Wickham. 

Presently  the  father  turned  to  him.  "I'll  do 
what  I  can,  John,  about  Wally — you  know 
that?  But  I'm  afraid  it  won't  be  much.  I'm 
not  very  clever,  you  know." 


VAUDEVILLE  41 

"Bother  cleverness!"  said  John.  "It's  folks, 
Wallace  wants — home  folks;  he's  forgot  who  he 
is  and  where  he  came  from.  You  and  Mother 
will  do  him  good — good  all  through.  What  he 
needs  is  apple-pie,  a  good,  big  piece  of  apple- 
pie — 'the  kind  that  Mother  used  to  make.'  " 

"Mother'll  do  him  good,"  said  Anthony; 
"she's  like  good  fresh  rain — and  the  sun — and 
sky." 

"But  she  mustn't  know,"  said  John  quickly. 
"She'd  take  to  doing  him  good  and  saving  him, 
if  she  knew." 

"We  mustn't  let  Mother  save  him,"  said  An- 
thony. "I  shouldn't  want  to  be  saved  by 
Mother  myself,"  he  said,  chuckling  a  little. 

The  house  about  them  had  grown  slowly  dark ; 
the  music  quickened  to  softly-dancing  steps; 
the  great  inner  curtain  rolled  up.  Into  a  maze 
of  coloured  lights  and  flowers  and  gauzy,  shift- 
ing scenes  a  fairy  on  tiptoes  floated  and  held 
herself — and  drifted  away  into  the  fire-lit  trees. 
Anthony  Wickham's  face  followed  her — fol- 
lowed the  dancing  feet  and  light-hung  move- 


42          THE  TASTE  OF  APPLES 

ment — the  weaving,  drifting,  careless  grace;  he 
drew  a  little,  quick  breath,  and  murmured  to 
himself. 

John's  eye  ran  to  him.  He  leaned  forward. 
"Did  you  ever  see  anything  just  like  it,  Father*?" 
he  said,  smiling. 

Anthony's  face,  through  the  dim  gloom, 
turned  to  him  vaguely.  "I've  felt  like  it — al- 
ways," he  said. 

John  laughed  softly.  "That's  it!  We've 
all  felt  like  it — in  a  dream !" 

"In  a  dream "  said  Anthony. 

"Hush-sh-h!"  The  quick-dancing  figure  had 
come  again — out  of  her  dreams — all  the  lights  of 
the  world  playing  upon  her,  swinging,  swirling, 
lifting,  drifting,  fast  and  faster,  whirl  of  swift- 
flung  spray,  and  winding,  fire-lit  cloud  .  .  . 
and  quickened  breath.  The  curtain  came  down 
and  went  up  again  and  again — hands  beat  upon 
hands.  .  .  .  The  house  swung  to  the  dancing 
feet.  Three  thousand  people,  heavy  and  dumb, 
had  danced  upon  the  fire-lit  stage — and  hand 
beat  on  hand.  .  .  .  The  curtain  came  slowly 


VAUDEVILLE  43 

down — the  lights  flashed  out;  tired  faces,  under 
their  painted  shells,  looked  out  about  them 
vaguely — smiling  at  the  pretty  thing  they  had 
seen. 

"What  was  it  like?"  asked  Mother  at  the 
breakfast  table. 


VII 


MOTHERS    OPINIONS 

JOHN  had  reserved  a  table  for  them  in  the  bay- 
window  and  through  the  transparent  curtains 
they  could  see  the  glimpses  of  flowers  and  sil- 
ver, and  waiters  passing  to  and  fro,  with  noise- 
less feet.  Their  own  waiter  had  placed  the 
breakfast  on  the  table  and  withdrawn  just  out- 
side, and  through  the  filmy  curtain  Mother  could 
see  his  shoulder  and  a  huge,  hanging  hand.  She 
sat  behind  her  coffee-urn,  erect  and  competent,  a 
smile  behind  her  round  glasses. 

"What  was  it  like*?"  she  repeated. 

John  glanced  at  his  father — and  Anthony  re- 
turned the  glance,  smiling. 

"It  was  vaudeville,  you  know,  Mother,"  said 
John. 

"Yes — what  is  vaudeville  like?"  She  was 
putting  in  the  lumps  deftly — three  for  John  and 
two  for  his  father. 

44 


MOTHER'S  OPINIONS  45 

"All  sorts  of  things,"  said  John  slowly. 

"Vaudeville there  was  dancing,  you  know, 

and  singing  and " 

"Dancing !"  said  Mother.  She  was  look- 
ing at  Anthony. 

He  took  his  coffee  and  stirred  it  and  smiled 
at  her.  "It  was  very  pretty,  Mother."  His 
eyes  seemed  to  be  following  a  drifting  figure 
through  the  filmy  curtain.  Mother  half  turned. 
She  looked  reproachfully  at  John.  "I  really 
ought  to  have  gone  with  him,"  she  said. 

"You  would  have  liked  it,  Mother,"  he  re- 
plied. He  was  smiling  at  the  utter  roundness 
of  her  face  and  its  softly-puckered  lines.  "You 
would  have  liked  it.  It  wasn't  the  least  like 
what  you  are  seeing  in  your  mind." 

"I  am  not  seeing  anything  in  my  mind,"  she 
declared.  But  a  swift  flush  ran  over  the  round 
face — and  left  it  blank. 

John  laughed  out.  "Ask  Father  to  tell  you 
about  it,  on  the  boat.  It  would  take  too  long 
now — and  besides  there  are  a  thousand  things  to 
settle.  I've  brought  your  letter  of  credit, 


46          THE  TASTE  OF  APPLES 

Father — "  He  held  out  a  paper  and  Anthony 
took  it  in  slow,  pleased  fingers.  "It's  made  out 
on  the  London  Provincial  Bank.  You  deposit 
it  with  them,  and  then  you'd  better  open  an  ac- 
count there,  wouldn't  you1?" 

"You  tell  me  about  that,  John,"  said  Mother 
meaningly. 

"I'll  tell  you  both — it's  simple — "  He  drew 
a  small,  dark-red  book  from  his  pocket  and 
opened  it.  "This  is  my  cheque-book — see — I 
set  down  here  what  I  put  in — and  here,  on  the 
right,  what  I  spend — and  then  add  them,  and 
subtract,  and  balance  at  the  bottom  of  each  page 
— and  put  the  balance  at  the  top  of  the  next 
page,  you  see — and  so  on."  He  ran  the  pages 
lightly  between  his  fingers — "Here's  the  draft  I 
drew  for  the  letter  of  credit." 

Mother's  eyes  were  glued  to  it.  "A  thousand 
dollars,"  she  whispered.  "It's  too  much, 
John !"  Her  eyes  sought  the  shoulder  just  out- 
side the  lace  curtain.  "You'd  better  give  it  to 
me,  Anthony — "  she  said. 


MOTHER'S  OPINIONS  47 

But  John  interposed.  "It's  in  Father's 
name — "  he  was  smiling  a  little — "and  it  has  a 
description  of  Father  in  it.  It  wouldn't  do  for 
a  little,  round  person  like  you,  Mother !" 

Her  face  fell  a  little.  "How  do  we  open  an 
account*?"  she  asked. 

"They'll  show  you  over  there."  He  was  go- 
ing over  his  list  swiftly.  "Now  here  are  your 
tickets  and  some  English  change — you'll  need 
it  for  your  cab,  and  so  on — and  here  is  some 
American  money  for  fees  on  the  boat " 

"For  what*?"  said  Mother. 

"Fees — on  the  boat;  you  pay  you  know " 

"What  for?'  said  Mother. 

"Why  for — for  fees — "  John  began  at  the 
beginning  and  explained  carefully  the  system 
of  transatlantic  tariff,  and  Mother's  face  grew 
rounder  and  sadder  as  she  listened;  it  screwed 
itself  in  little  wrinkles  as  she  looked  at  him — 
trying  to  understand. 

"What  did  you  say  we  give  the  man  on  the 
deck*?"  she  asked. 


48  THE  TASTE  OF  APPLES 

"The  deck-steward? — Oh,  a  couple  of  dollars. 
I'll  put  it  in  this  envelope — "  he  handed  it  across 
to  Anthony. 

"What  does  the  deck-steward  do?"  asked 
Mother  quickly. 

"You  get  your  chairs  of  him,  you  know " 

"Oh,  it's  for  the  chairs — a  kind  of  rent." 
Her  face  cleared. 

But  Anthony's  slow  fingers  were  going  over 
the  envelopes  on  the  table  beside  him.  "Here's 
another  marked  'deck-steward,'  "  he  said,  hold- 
ing it  up. 

John  looked  at  it,  helplessly.  "That  is  for 
the  chairs,"  he  said,  "when  you  firs',  go  on — 
Give  it  here.  I'll  see  about  them  before  you 
start.  That  makes  one  less  bother  for  you." 
He  replaced  the  money  in  his  purse. 

Mother's  eyes  followed  it,  relieved.  "Then 
we  don't  have  to  give  the  deck-steward  any- 
thing?" she  said  happily. 

"Yes,  I've  got  it  here — 'deck-steward,'  "  read 
Anthony. 


MOTHER'S  OPINIONS  49 

She  looked  at  it  despairingly.  Then  she 
wrinkled  at  John. 

"He  carries  your  chair  around  for  you — " 
said  John. 

"I'll  carry  it,"  she  said  promptly.  "Father'll 
carry  it  for  me."  She  beamed  on  Father. 

John  groaned  a  little.  "You  understand  it, 
don't  you,  Father?" 

"Yes;  I'm  to  give  the  deck-steward  this — " 
He  touched  the  envelope  on  the  table  before  him, 
"when  we  get  there?" 

"Yes.  Here's  a  book  I  got — that  gives  a 
general  estimate  of  fees." 

"You  mean,  John  Wickham,  that  we've  got 
to  keep  on  doing  this  every  day — dealing  out 
little  driblets  of  money  to  folks — for  nothing?" 

"Oh,  they  do  things  for  you " 

"I  don't  want  it!"  She  pushed  the  helpful 
little  book  aside.  "I'm  not  going!  I'd  rather 
stay  right  here !" 

A  twinkle  came  into  John's  eye.  "It  will 
cost  a  lot  more  to  stay  here  than  to  go,  I'm 


50  THE  TASTE  OF  APPLES 

afraid,"  he  said.  His  eye  was  on  the  shoulder, 
just  outside  the  filmy  curtain,  and  on  the  large 
arm  that  depended  from  the  shoulder,  and  on 
the  huge  hand  at  the  end  of  the  arm. 

"We  don't  do  things  like  that  here!"  said 
Mother.  She  eyed  the  innocent  book  scorn- 
fully. 

"I'm  afraid  we  do — and  worse,"  said  John 
softly.  The  fingers  of  the  huge  hand  worked 
back  and  forth  a  little  and  twiddled  themselves. 
"And  worse!"  said  John. 

Mother  looked  at  him  helplessly.  "You 
mean  you've  got  to  do  it  here — in  this  hotel — in 
New  York!" 

"Right  here,"  said  John. 

She  gave  a  little  gasp.  "I'm  going  home!" 
she  said.  She  turned  to  Anthony.  "You 
hadn't  ought  to  have  let  me,  Father,"  she  said 
reproachfully. 

Anthony's  eyes  rested  on  her,  half-compassion- 
ate, and  very  gentle  and  amused.  "I  didn't  un- 
derstand it  myself,  Mother — not  really  under- 
stand it.  They  tried  to  explain  it  to  me  in  the 


MOTHER'S  OPINIONS  51 

shop  one  day;  but  I  didn't  get  it  clear  in  my 
mind.     John's  made  it  very  clear." 

"Oh,  it's  clear !  That's  the  trouble  with  it !" 
said  Mother. 

There  was  silence  in  the  window.  .  .  .  The 
son  looked  at  her  and  smiled — "I  don't  want  to 
urge  you,  Mother;  but  it  will  be  hard  for 
Father — he  always  depends  on  you  so." 

She  glanced  at  him  quickly. 

Anthony  looked  across  to  her.  "I  do  need 
you,  Mother,"  he  said  softly. 

"You  needn't  think  I  shall  stay  here  and  let 
you  go  alone,  Anthony.  I  know  more  about 
your  needing  me  than  you  do,"  she  said.  She 
brushed  the  crumbs  from  her  lap  and  stood  up. 
"Did  you  have  our  baggage  all  brought  down?" 
she  asked. 

She  sailed  through  the  filmy  curtains  without 
a  glance  at  the  huge  hand  hanging  just  outside; 
and,  fortunately,  she  did  not  see  the  good,  round, 
solid  piece  of  silver  that  dropped  into  it  as  John 
went  by. 


VIII 

ON    TRAVEL 

THE  boat-train  to  London  filled  slowly.  Til- 
bury Dock  was  alive  in  the  darkness  with  the 
pushing,  jostling  crowd;  porters  wheeling  heavy 
trunks  piled  with  luggage,  leaned  upon  the  dark- 
ness and  trundled  down  the  platform.  The 
crowd  parted  and  swayed  and  moved  slowly 
along  with  them — toward  the  train. 

In  the  midst  of  it,  there  was  Anthony,  hold- 
ing close  to  his  umbrella,  and  Mother,  holding 
tight  to  Anthony's  arm — her  bonnet  a  little 
askew  and  her  face  puckered  in  its  lines.  It  had 
not  entered  into  Mother's  plans  of  foreign  travel 
to  arrive  in  England  by  night,  and  she  felt  her- 
self borne  on  an  unknown  tide  into  a  moist  black- 
ness. Somewhere  beyond  it  lay  London  and  a 
place  to  sleep — perhaps.  Out  in  the  Thames, 
in  the  deeper,  thicker  darkness  behind,  the  Min- 

netonka  was  at  anchor.     Through  the  half-twi- 

52 


ON  TRAVEL  53 

light,  she  had  crept  up  the  river — a  thunder- 
storm, with  its  murky  light,  playing  strange 
uncanny  antics  on  the  clouds.  Red,  mysteri- 
ous sails  had  dropped  down  to  meet  them  and 
had  hovered  curiously  about;  great  steamships 
had  passed  silently,  or  had  loomed  against  the 
sky  with  their  anchors  fast  in  Thames  mud. 
Tiny  lights  had  gleamed  out,  red  lights,  green 
lights,  yellow  lights — a  whole  world  of  lights — 
on  the  shore  and  on  boats,  growing  thicker  as  the 
great  boat  crowded  up  the  river  and  came  to  an^ 
chor  in  midstream. 

Mother,  in  her  stateroom,  gathering  up  the 
few  last  articles,  had  peered  out  of  her  porthole 
at  the  magnificent  rolling  sky,  and  at  the  sheets 
of  fine  rain  that  drove  between.  .  .  .  She  had 
watched  the  little  red  sails  hover  about,  and  the 
great  motionless  hulks  of  steamers  loom  past — 
and  she  had  drawn  a  quick  home-sick  breath  and 
tied  on  her  bonnet  with  fingers  that  trembled  a 
little.  .  .  .  She  had  been  prepared  for  London 
and  its  roar  and  hurry  of  streets,  but  not  for 
this  strange,  unsheltered  vastness  on  the  edge 


54  THE  TASTE  OF  APPLES 

of  space — that  she  was  told  was  England.  .  .  . 
It  was  all  a  vague,  confused  dream.  She  hoped 
Anthony  had  the  tickets,  and  his  keys  safe — and 
that  Somebody  knew  where  they  were  going. 
Then  she  opened  her  stateroom  door  and  stepped 
valiantly  out — and  climbed  down  the  steamer's 
side  into  the  tender  that  waited.  .  .  . 

Anthony  patted  the  hand  that  lay  on  his  arm. 
"We're  here,  Mother—"  he  said. 

"Where  do  you  suppose  they  have  put  the 
trunks,  Anthony?"  she  replied  swiftly. 

'Til  go  and  see,"  said  Anthony,  and  slipped 
away. 

"Anthony!"  she  gasped  .  .  .  but  there  was 
only  the  moving  kaleidoscope  of  faces  and  black- 
ness and  twinkling  lights. 

Somebody  bundled  her  into  a  carriage.  .  .  . 
Suppose  he  did  not  find  her*?  How  could  he  re- 
member where  he  had  left  her — going  off  like 
that  among  perfectly  strange  people!  She 
grasped  the  little  bag  tight.  .  .  .  There  must 
be  some  place — some  place  for  people  to  go  who 
were  lost — whose  husbands  were  lost. 


ON  TRAVEL  55 

A  strange  man  put  his  head  in  the  door — 
"Room  enough  in  here,"  he  said,  "come  on — 
just  one  woman " 

He  placed  his  bag  on  the  seat  by  Mother  and 
she  screwed  her  courage  tight.  "My  husband  is 

going  to  sit  there — if  he  comes  back "  she 

said  timidly. 

The  man  glared  at  her  and  turned  back  to  the 
door.  "Better  go  on — more  room  farther 
down,"  he  said  to  some  one  behind,  and  they 
surged  away.  And  Mother  was  alone  with  her 
little  black  bag — the  only  thing  in  England  that 
she  had  ever  seen  before. 

Bells  rang — shouting  and  slamming  of  doors, 
and  running  feet.  A  man  put  his  head  in. 
"Tickets!"  he  said. 

Mother  gulped.  "I  haven't  any — husband!" 
she  said  softly. 

There  was  a  flying  mist,  a  smile  behind  him, 
and  Anthony  slid  in — and  the  door  slammed. 
Wheels  grumbled  a  little  and  turned  softly,  the 
platform  began  to  move — faces  passed  and 
slipped  off  into  the  blackness.  Mother,  search- 


56  THE  TASTE  OF  APPLES 

ing  in  her  black  bag  for  her  handkerchief,  saw 
them  blur  and  run  away. 

Anthony  turned,  with  his  gentle  smile — "All 
right,  Mother?" 

"Don't  you  ever  leave  me  again,  Anthony 
Wickham — not  for  one  minute!  I  might  have 
been  lost." 

"But  you  couldn't  be  lost  in  a  train — 
Mother!" 

"You  can't  tell  what  might  be,"  said  Mother, 
putting  the  handkerchief  back  in  her  bag,  and 
snapping  it  close.  "It's  different  in  England — 
everything's  different !" 

"Yeg — we're  going  to  see  new  things  every 
day  now,"  assented  Anthony,  glancing  at  the 
black  window  flying  by. 

Mother  made  no  response.  For  six  days  lying 
in  her  berth,  too  weak  to  move,  she  had  watched, 
through  the  clumsy  porthole,  the  sky  go  by  and 
a  great  sick  green  wave  lifting  itself  and  sidling 
away  into  the  treacherous  sea;  for  six  days  she 
had  listened  to  the  walls  of  her  stateroom,  creak- 
ing, whispering,  relaxing — like  a  fat  woman  in 


ON  TRAVEL  57 

corsets ;  for  six  days  the  making  of  a  new  heaven 
and  a  new  earth  had  gone  on.  No  need  to  tell 
Mother  she  was  going  to  see  new  things;  her  life 
had  dissolved — melted  away  into  the  mists  that 
drifted  by  the  brass-rimmed  porthole,  or  wiped 
in  furtive  ashamed  tears  from  her  face.  An- 
thony did  not  see  the  tears ;  he  never  once  caught 
the  handkerchief  drying  forlornly  on  the  edge  of 
its  berth;  and  to  all  his  cheerful  enquiries  there 
was  the  same  plucky,  wrinkled-up  assurance — 
"Yes,  feeling  better,  thank  you — but  not  quite 
like  getting  up  to-day." 

It  seemed,  in  some  ways,  a  pity  that  Anthony 
should  not  have  been  the  one  to  succumb  to  the 
sea ;  for  Anthony  had  a  dozen  remedies — a  dozen 
of  them  and  more.  Each  of  the  ministers  had 
given  him,  with  the  list  of  Madonnas  and  tombs 
and  gateways,  an  infallible  remedy;  they  had 
not  tried  it  themselves,  but  each  had  it  from 
some  reliable  source;  and  it  was  absolutely  in- 
fallible— absolutely.  They  had  given  him  also 
vivid  accounts  of  their  state  of  being  on  ship- 
board— all  of  which  they  might  have  been  spared 


58          THE  TASTE  OF  APPLES 

if  they  had  known  beforehand  of  the  one  infal- 
lible .  .  .  Anthony,  secure  in  gentleness  of 
soul,  had  not  needed  the  remedy;  and  Mother's 
state  of  being  was  so  unlike  those  described  by 
his  infallible  advisers  that  Anthony  had  not  rec- 
ognised it. 

So  Mother  had  worried  through  as  best  she 
could;  and  she  was  entering  valiantly  and  for- 
lornly upon  a  new  year  in  which  everything  was 
going  to  be  different.  .  .  .  She  crept  a  little 
closer  into  her  shell  and  steadied  herself  against 
the  jolting  of  the  train,  and  nodded,  half  asleep 
— one  hand  clasped  tight  in  Anthony's,  lest  he 
should  slip  away  again,  and  she  should — be — 
lost.  .  .  .  The  train  jolted  into  her  slumbers 
and  knit  them  and  gathered  them  up — and  she 
was  back  in  Bolton  and  the  canary  was  singing 
in  his  cage  and  the  geraniums  in  blossom  in  the 
window. 

But  Anthony,  sitting  erect  beside  her,  held  by 
the  motion  of  the  quick-running  train,  was  not 
thinking  of  Bolton.  His  mind  ran  ahead  to 
the  streets  and  the  people  that  waited  for  him. 


ON  TRAVEL  59 

He  had  not  known,  sitting  at  his  bench,  mending 
shoes,  how  much  he  longed  for  people.  There 
had  always  been  Simon  to  talk  to,  and  the  big 
man  and  Samuel — but  they  said  the  same  things 
over  and  over;  and  Anthony's  mind,  travelling 
into  new  worlds  and  coming  back,  alive  with 
thought,  had  met  always  the  same  old  answers — 
the  same  fly-specked,  dreary  round  of  conjecture 
and  assurance.  But  now,  for  six  days,  he  had 
lived  ...  a  Scientist,  leaning  on  the  rail  of  the 
boat,  with  his  back  to  the  sea,  had  talked  to  him 
of  opsonin  and  entropy;  a  Doctor  of  Divinity 
had  presented  him  with  "Q";  a  Syndicalist, 
moving  in  continental  grooves,  had  held  the 
world  by  the  throat  for  him  and  shaken  it  with 
long  vindictive  fingers  till  gold  and  silver 
dropped  from  its  pockets  and  rolled  on  the  deck 
before  them,  and  Anthony  and  the  Syndicalist 
had  only  to  stoop  and  gather  them  up  by  hand- 
fuls — but  they  would  not  even  stoop — the  Cap- 
italist should  pick  it  up  for  them,  and  present 
it,  hat  in  hand,  and  say,  "Thank  you,  sir." 
And  the  Syndicalist  had  paced  the  deck,  his  hat 


60  THE  TASTE  OF  APPLES 

off,  his  hair  rumpled  by  the  breeze  of  heaven 
and  his  own  lively  ideas.  There  had  been  a 
promoter,  too,  who  would  have  made  Anthony 
rich  within  a  month  if  all  his  available  money 
had  not  been  safe  in  the  little  bag  under  Mother's 
pillow.  Every  one  on  board,  it  seemed  to  An- 
thony, had  talked — and  he  had  drunk  in  their 
words  and  paced  the  deck,  the  wind  blowing 
his  coat  about  his  thin  legs  and  taking  him 
off  his  feet  if  he  turned  a  sudden  corner.  .  .  . 
Between  the  new  ideas  that  surged  within,  and 
the  winds  that  buffeted,  it  seemed  to  him  at  times 
that  his  feet  were  not  on  the  deck  of  a  great 
steady-rolling  boat,  but  moving  in  cloud-lit  ways. 
He  bet  on  the  boat's  run  and  took  a  childlike 
pleasure  in  the  bits  of  silver  lying  in  his  palm. 
It  did  not  occur  to  him  that  Mother  would  dis- 
approve; but,  by  the  help  of  his  good  angel,  he 
did  not  mention  them  to  her.  So  Mother,  jolt- 
ing sleepily  beside  him,  had  one  less  care  for  her 
troubled  soul.  The  little  pieces  of  silver  would 
have  shown  her  Anthony's  slender  feet  set  in  the 
downward  way. 


ON  TRAVEL  61 

But  now,  in  the  rumbling  train,  her  hand 
clasped  a  tower  of  strength.  At  home,  Anthony 
was  only  a  reed,  blown  by  the  wind  of  thought. 
He  made  and  mended  shoes;  but  one  did  not 
trust  him  with  serious  affairs — buying  the  win- 
ter's coal  and  selecting  shirts.  .  .  .  Here,  in 
this  desert  of  strangeness,  and  speeding  toward 
a  greater  strangeness,  he  was — somehow  inex- 
plicably— another  Anthony.  .  .  .  But,  when 
all  was  said  and  done,  he  was  only  Anthony. 

The  train  came  to  a  pause  and  he  put  his  head 
out  of  the  window  and  looked  up  and  down  the 
platform — doors  were  being  thrown  open — por- 
ters crowded  in.  He  gathered  up  his  hand-bag 
and  stepped  out,  Mother  holding  him  fast. 

Then,  suddenly,  she  dropped  the  hand  she 
held,  and  darted  forward — and  threw  herself 
upon  a  big  man  and  clasped  him  close.  The 
big  man  bent  a  little,  and  smiled,  and  reached 
out  a  free  hand  to  Anthony 

"It's  Wally,  Father!"  sobbed  Mother  val- 
iantly. "It's  Wally  Tilton ! — I  knew  there'd  be 
somebody  here — to  take  care  of  us !" 


IX 


WALLACE  TILTON  AND  APPLES 

IT  did  not  seem  a  minute  before  Wallace  Tilton 
had  gathered  them  up  and  placed  them  in  a  taxi- 
cab;  the  porter  trundled  up  with  trunks  and 
bags,  thumping  them  on  the  roof  and  stowing 
them  in  front,  and  they  were  off  through  the 
whirring,  turning  London  streets. 

Mother  glanced  from  the  window,  but  it  was 
only  a  blur — sprinkling  lights — half-seen  shops 
— flying  signs — and  close  beside  them  a  friendly 
honk — honk-honk — honk-honk-honk!  .  .  .  She 
looked  across  to  Wallace  Tilton,  sitting  oppo- 
site, and  smiled — a  round,  happy,  competent 
smile. 

"You  come  and  sit  here,  Wally."  She  patted 
the  ample  seat  beside  her.  "There's  plenty  of 
room  between  us — yes.  It's  more  comfortable 
to  sit  close." 

And    Wally   moved   over   between    the    two 
6* 


WALLACE  TILTON  AND  APPLES     63 

with  a  sudden  pleased  sense  of  being  a  boy.  He 
had  not  known  Mrs.  Wickham  very  well  in 
Bolton.  She  had  been  only  John  Wickham' s 
mother  to  him  when  they  played  ball  together 
and  went  in  swimming.  As  he  had  paced  up  and 
down  the  platform,  waiting  for  the  boat-train, 
he  had  tried  to  recall  how  she  looked ;  but  he  had 
had  only  a  confused  sense  of  something  round 
and  lively — and  a  sudden  taste  of  apples  in  his 
mouth.  When  he  saw  her  descend  from  the 
carriage,  clinging  to  Anthony's  hand,  her  f:.ce 
had  flashed  him  back  through  thousands  of  miles 
— two  cookies  and  an  apple  for  each  of  them — 
always — how  could  he  have  forgotten  her! 
And  while  his  respectable  leather  feet  carried 
him  to  the  cab  and  back  and  looked  after  luggage 
and  fees,  his  real  feet  were  twinkling  down  the 
streets  of  Bolton — grass  and  pebbles  tickling  the 
bare  soles — and  he  shouted,  nibbling  cookies  and 
apples,  as  he  went.  .  .  . 

"Did  you  have  a  comfortable  voyage*?"  he 
asked,  looking  down  in  the  swift-moving  dark- 
ness on  Mother's  bonnet. 


64  THE  TASTE  OF  APPLES 

"Very  nice,"  said  Mother  promptly.  "You 
tell  him  where  we're  going  to,  Anthony.  .  .  . 
He's  got  it  on  a  piece  of  paper — John  wrote  it 
out  for  him " 

"I  guess  Wally  knows  where  we're  going  to 
stay,  Mother." 

"How  should  he  know,  Father4?  We  didn't 
know,  ourselves — till  just  before  we  started,  did 
we?' 

"No — "  said  Anthony.  He  did  not  like  to 
mention  cablegrams.  He  knew  how  serenely 
Mother's  face  was  beaming  beyond  Wally's  big 
shoulder;  and  his  fingers  searched  obediently  for 
the  slip  of  paper. 

"It's  pretty  lucky  Wally  happened  to  be  going 
by  just  as  our  train  got  in,"  said  Mother  slowly. 
"It's  more  than  lucky — "  she  added  thought- 
fully. "It's  one  of  those  things  you  can't  ex- 
plain." 

And  neither  Anthony  nor  Wallace  tried  to. 

"That's  the  place,"  said  Anthony.  He 
handed  over  the  slip  of  paper. 


WALLACE  TILTON  AND  APPLES     65 

"All  right,"  responded  Wallace,  and  tucked 
it  into  his  pocket. 

It  was  the  unexpected  beginning  of  an  under- 
standing between  them.  Wallace  Tilton  was 
not  stupid;  he  himself  would  have  admitted 
that  he  had  cut  his  eye-teeth;  and  while  An- 
thony had  not  cut  his  teeth,  he  had  lived  with 
Mother  thirty  years.  Her  serene  little  faiths 
shining  upon  the  ways  of  Providence,  were  not 
things  to  be  tampered  with. 

They  turned  out  of  the  roar  of  Haymarket 
into  a  side  street  and  a  sudden  hush — a  sense  of 
slipping  forward  on  silence.  Wallace  glanced 
at  the  dark  shops  on  either  side — "We're  nearly 
there,"  he  said. 

Mother  straightened  her  bonnet  furtively  in 
the  darkness  and  clasped  her  bag  tight. 

The  "taxi"  came  to  rest  before  a  great  door, 
and  Mother  peered  out.  A  single  gas-jet  above 
the  entrance  lighted  up  the  front  of  the  house, 
a  staid,  old-fashioned  house,  blocking  the  end 
of  the  still  little  street.  From  the  distance  came 


66  THE  TASTE  OF  APPLES 

soft-purring  sounds  and  faded  honks — honk- 
honk-honks — passing  dreamily  over  the  roofs. 
"It  looks  like  a  nice  place,"  said  Mother. 

"It  is  a  nice  place,"  said  Wallace,  stepping 
from  the  cab.  "At  least  they  say  so." 

The  door  had  swung  open  before  them  and  a 
little  old  woman,  with  softly-crimped  white 
hair  under  its  muslin  cap  and  meek-folded  hands, 
stood  in  the  arched  doorway  looking  out  at  them 
with  keen,  quiet  eyes.  Mother  stepped  quickly 
out,  and  the  figure  in  the  door  moved  a  little 
back  with  an  air  of  quaint  stiffness  that  was  like 
a  curtsey. 

"We  have  been  expecting  you,"  she  said; 
"your  son  cabled  you  would  be  here  to-night." 
She  took  down  a  bunch  of  keys  from  a  nail  in 
the  hall. 

Mother  turned  back  to  the  door — "She's  heard 
from  John,  Anthony — to-day!  Come  right  in. 
How  did  you  know  it  was  us?" 

Her  landlady  smiled  a  little.  "We  were  ex- 
pecting Americans,"  she  said  discreetly. 


WALLACE  TILTON  AND  APPLES     67 

"And  you  knew  I  was  American — the  first 
thing4?" 

"Yes."  She  smiled  again  and  led  the  way 
into  an  office.  "Show  these  guests  to  Number 
Ten."  She  handed  the  bunch  of  keys  to  a  smart 
young  woman  who  came  forward.  "We  can 
make  you  comfortable  in  Number  Ten  to-night, 
and  to-morrow  I  shall  give  you  a  better  room. 
I  hope  you  will  find  everything  you  need."  She 
dismissed  them  with  her  little  dip  that  was  half 
benediction,  half  curtsey,  and  Mother  followed 
the  jingling  bunch  of  keys  to  Number  Ten. 

"It's  much  nicer  than  New  York!"  she  said. 

The  door  had  closed  behind  the  smart  young 
woman  and  Mother  had  taken  off  her  bonnet  and 
deposited  it  in  a  bureau  drawer — a  whole  bureau 
drawer  to  itself — with  almost  a  wicked  sense  of 
roominess. 

Wallace  Tilton  smiled  a  little.  He  glanced 
about  the  small,  stuffy  apartment.  "You  like 
it  better  than  New  York,  do  you?" 

"It's  more  like  home,"  said  Mother. 


68          THE  TASTE  OF  APPLES 

"Yes — it's  homelike  and  quaint.  I  suppose 
it's  about  the  last  place  of  its  kind  in  London. 
It  was  just  like  John  to  think  of  it  for  you; 
you'll  be  comfortable  here." 

"We  shall  like  it  real  well,"  said  Mother;  and 
the  familiar,  half -forgotten  phrase  carried  the 
big  man  of  business  back  again  to  the  boy. 

He  held  out  his  hand.  "Good-night;  you 
have  my  address,  you'll  be  sure  to  let  me  know 
if  there's  anything  I  can  do ?" 

Mother  took  the  hand — tight,  as  if  she  heard 
all  London  roaring  out  there  to  devour  her. 
"You'll  come  and  see  us  every  day,  won't  you, 
Wally?  I  don't  know  how  we  should  have  got 
along  without  you !"  She  held  his  hand,  still — 
looking  up  at  him  a  little  wistfully. 

Wallace  Tilton's  mother  was  dead.  He  did 
not  think  of  her  often — but  he  had  a  sudden, 
swift  sense  that  he  had  missed  something,  as  he 
looked  down  at  the  wrinkled  face.  "I'll  come 
as  often  as  you  want  me  to,"  he  said.  "Glad 
to  come!" 

Then  he  had  gone.     And  Mother  had  patted 


WALLACE  TILTON  AND  APPLES     69 

the  pillows  and  looked  in  the  empty  wardrobe 
and  unpacked  three  bags  with  a  still,  sunny  face. 

"I  don't  see  as  Wally's  changed  a  mite,"  she 
said.  "He  looks  to  me  just  about  the  same  as 
he  did  when  he  was  little." 

And  Wallace,  strolling  along  by  the  big  stone 
lions,  stopped  to  light  a  cigarette,  and  smiled  as 
the  smoke  curled  softly  about  his  face.  He 
threw  away  the  match  with  a  quick  puff.  .  .  . 
It  would  probably  be  a  great  bore — but  there 
was  something  about  them  .  .  .  He  strolled 
on — with  a  little  fresh,  quick  laughter  stirring 
somewhere  in  his  heart. 


X 

A    CITY    BY    NIGHT 

MOTHER,  on  her  comfortable  pillow,  dreamed  of 
Bolton  and  the  canary.  Only  the  faintest 
whispers  of  the  wicked  city  reached  her.  Up 
and  down  the  Strand,  the  river  of  faces  flowed — 
vacuous,  moving  lips,  dull-heavy  feet — chatter 
and  blank,  and  half-souled  eyes  looking 
out. 

Anthony  Wickham  felt  the  sluggish  tide,  and 
turned  on  his  pillow.  Up  against  the  sky,  a 
great  electric  glow  crept  rosily  and  spread  itself; 
and  he  lay  looking  at  it,  listening  to  the  muffled 
city — the  ceaseless  honk  of  horns,  waiting,  call- 
ing, calling. 

He  rose  softly  and  tiptoed  across  the  room 
and  dressed  himself  and  slipped  out,  with  quick, 
soft-clicking  turn  of  the  latch.  Down  in  the 
clang  and  rush,  his  feet  guiding  him  as  if  they 

remembered,  the  Strand  drew  him,  sucked  him 

70 


A  CITY  BY  NIGHT  71 

in  and  bore  him  on — the  heavy-running  Strand, 
with  its  weight  of  life,  moving  forever  out  of  the 
past,  riot  and  colour  and  laugh  shrunk  to  a 
dead-brown  stream.  .  .  .  Overhead  the  lights 
blinked  and  twinkled  and  stared,  with  cold, 
steady  glare — white  lights,  shining  on  a  past. 
But  Anthony  Wickham,  pressing  close  among 
the  crowd,  drifting  with  it,  stopping  at  shop 
windows,  staring  at  theatre-bills,  drifting  on, 
felt  only  the  pulse  of  life,  the  great,  new  surg- 
ing life  behind  the  eyes  and  the  faces — strug- 
gling out.  He  pressed  close.  People  enough 
at  last!  His  gentle,  smiling  eyes  rested  on 
them.  No  one  looked  at  him — or  cared. 
But  somehow  Anthony  Wickham  gathered  them 
up — all  of  them — into  his  hungry  heart  and 
talked  with  them — all  these  friends.  .  .  .  Bol- 
ton  was  safe — with  Mother  and  the  canary  in  its 
cage.  The  great  'buses  clanged  and  swayed,  and 
he  looked  at  the  tops — at  the  jolting,  soaring 
heads  and  hats — and  laughed  softly  .  .  .  and 
the  feet  on  the  pavement  rose  and  fell,  rose 
and  fell He  had  a  sudden  dim  sense  of 


72  THE  TASTE  OF  APPLES 

Samuel  at  his  bench,  tapping  forever — and  the 
fat  face  changed  to  a  thousand  eyes — a  woman's 
feather  floated  out — a  blue,  long  feather,  like  a 
cloud — the  hats  and  shoulders  bobbed,  and  rose 
and  fell — rose  and  fell  to  the  beating  pulse. 
Some  one  jostled  him,  and  he  looked  down;  a 
bleared  old  hand  had  thrust  a  box  of  matches  in 
his  face,  and  Anthony  felt  in  his  pockets. 
Surely,  he  had  some  change,  some  silver  and 
those  great  copper  wheels — he  remembered  how 
heavy  they  were;  his  fingers  came  out  empty, 
and  he  shook  his  head.  .  .  .  The  beggar's  dull- 
fixed  eyes  rested  on  him  .  .  .  and  roved  away, 
and  came  back,  and  the  matches  thrust  them- 
selves— with  a  whine.  Anthony  shook  his  head 
and  put  his  hands  in  his  pockets,  turning  them 
slowly  inside  out.  .  .  .  The  beggar's  grin 
drifted  on,  dirty,  toothless — shuffle-shuffle,  lock- 
and-shuffle.  .  .  .  Anthony's  eyes  followed  the 
shuffle,  the  bent  back  and  dipping  coat — and  the 
crowd  came  between.  In  a  doorway,  an  old 
woman,  dozing  above  her  crumpled  flow- 
ers, looked  up — and  jerked  them  forth,  "Pen'- 


A  CITY  BY  NIGHT  73 

a-bunch,  pen'-a-bunch "  she  mumbled,  and 

dropped  back  into  muzzy,  trembling  nods. 
Anthony's  eyes  rested  on  her — she  jerked  herself 
and  held  them  forth,  "Pen'-a-bunch — pen'-a- 

a "  she  warbled,  and  collapsed.  Anthony 

hesitated  a  moment,  and  stepped  over  to  her,  lift- 
ing her  head  a  little  till  it  rested  against  the  side 
of  the  door.  "Pen'-a-bun' "  she  ground  out. 

A  man  and  woman  passing  gave  a  little  glance 
of  amusement.  "Drunk  as  a  fool !"  murmured 
the  man.  "Disgusting!"  said  the  woman,  with 
a  half-glance  of  pity. 

A  big  blue  uniform  appeared  in  the  crowd 
and  moved  with  solid  foot — straight  ahead. 
Under  the  high,  inflexible  helmet,  a  pair  of  keen 
eyes  looked  out  and  a  little  smile  fixed  itself  on 
space.  Law  and  order  passed  by — the  crowd 
closed  in,  and  jostled  elbows  and  felt  the  shel- 
ter of  the  blue  arm  reach  above  them.  Over  the 
way,  a  church — dark-based,  with  delicate, 
springing  tower — lifted  itself  in  the  midst  of  the 
Strand.  Anthony  looked  up  to  it  and  crossed 
over.  The  roar  of  'buses  pounded  about  him 


74          THE  TASTE  OF  APPLES 

and  filled  him  with  din.  Up  and  down  the 
Strand  the  traffic  swirled;  and  around  the 
church,  taxis  shuttled  and  thrust  with  swift, 
burring  hum,  hoofs  patted  the  pavement,  click- 
ing by.  And  in  the  midst  of  the  roll  and  roar, 
the  little  church  rose  softly — bank  of  heaven — 
post-office  to  the  eternal — soul-shop,  Dwelling 
of  the  Most  High  .  .  .  Toot-toot!  Toot-toot- 
clang  !  Clang-  toot-toot-too  t-toot! 

Anthony  walked  around  the  church  and  turned 
into  a  little,  silent  street,  where  the  roaring  of 
the  Strand  behind  seemed  suddenly  lightened  and 
free.  He  looked  back  to  it,  at  the  traffic  rush- 
ing swiftly  across  the  end;  then  he  turned 
and  descended  the  little  street  till  the  rumble  had 
dwindled  to  a  whisper  behind.  Before  him  rows 
of  lights  glanced  out,  rows  of  lights  to  right  and 
left,  and  in  the  distance  before  him  great  shows 
of  coloured  moving  bulbs  making  pictures  on  the 
dark.  Anthony  stared  at  them  and  moved  on 
and  crossed  the  wide  street  in  front  of  him  and 
came  to  the  parapet.  He  leaned  on  it,  looking 


A  CITY  BY  NIGHT  75 

down — slow  sluggish  Thames,  flowing  with  the 
Strand. 

He  stood  a  long  time,  looking  down  at  the 
Thames.  He  did  not  know  that  he  was  look- 
ing on  the  source  of  England's  greatness,  flow- 
ing always  to  the  sea,  the  anchorage  that 
tempted  rovers  in,  and  built  a  city  there,  greatest 
of  cities,  and  mingled  tongues  and  races.  .  .  . 
Slow-moving,  sluggish  English  Thames.  .  .  . 
In  the  distance,  rows  of  bridges  spanned  it  with 
light-flung  arch;  and  beneath  them  moved  the 
muddy,  ceaseless  tide.  Something  of  its  sinister 
meaning  crept  up  to  Anthony  and  he  turned  away 
slowly.  ...  A  great  archway  spanned  the 
road  and  something  lying  at  the  side  of  it  with- 
in the  span  caught  his  eye;  he  bent  forward  and 
peered  at  it — and  looked  again  ...  a  man, 
close  against  the  arch,  fallen — perhaps  too  weak 
to  move.  Anthony  bent  te  him.  Then  his  eye 
fell  on  another  form  beyond — and  another — 
and  he  saw  them  stretching  into  the  dimness  of 
the  arch — asleep  on  the  stones.  He  straight- 


76  THE  TASTE  OF  APPLES 

cned  himself  and  stepped  out  of  the  arch  and 
looked  up  at  the  sky — somewhere  above.  "I 
mustn't  let  Mother  know  about  it.  Mother 
couldn't  sleep  if  she  knew  about  that !" 


XI 


MOTHER    AND    LONDON 

MOTHER  rose  with  the  lark — the  London  lark. 
She  went  softly  about  the  room — not  to  wake 
Anthony,  who  was  still  sleeping.  He  had  not 
slept  as  late  as  this  since  they  left  Bolton.  On 
the  steamer  he  had  been  up,  every  morning  be- 
fore the  sun,  watching  it  from  the  boat's  rail 
and  coming  down  to  tell  her  of  its  glories.  It 
would  be  a  long  time  before  Mother  could  listen 
to  a  sunrise  without  a  little  qualm. 

She  did  up  her  hair  in  its  tight,  competent 
"knob  and  finished  dressing  and  polished  her 
spectacles;  she  did  not  put  them  on;  she  only 
needed  them  for  fine  work,  for  reading  and  sew- 
ing and  brushing  Anthony's  clothes. 

There  was  a  knock  at  the  door  and  she  looked 
doubtfully  across  the  room.  Then  she  tiptoed 
to  the  door  and  opened  it.  A  young  man,  with 

neatly-pointed  moustache  and  lifted  eyebrows, 

77 


78          THE  TASTE  OF  APPLES 

bowed  himself  to  her.  Mother  nodded  back, 
holding  the  door  safe. 

"Will  Madam  breakfast  here,  or  in  the  break- 
fast-room4?" 

Madam  glanced  helplessly  at  Anthony,  and 
back  at  the  impassive  moustache;  she  took  her 
American  courage  in  her  hands — "We  don't 
want  it  yet — he's  asleep,"  she  whispered. 

"As  you  say,  Madam."  He  held  out  a  card 
to  her — "Madam  can  order  when  she  likes." 

Mother  closed  the  door  on  the  stately,  retreat- 
ing steps  and  sat  down,  trembling  a  little.  She 
had  had  her  first  encounter  with  a  foreigner — 
and  she  was  alive!  She  looked  down  at  the 
menu,  and  reached  for  her  glasses. 

When  Anthony  woke,  she  was  still  absorbed 
in  the  permutations  and  combinations  of  an  Eng- 
lish breakfast.  Half  an  hour  later  when,  with 
Anthony's  help,  she  had  selected  ham  and  eggs, 
potatoes  and  coffee  and  rolls — from  scheme 
marked  "table  d'hote,"  and  costing  something 
that  Mother  figured  into  thirty-six  cents,  she 
sighed  a  little. 


MOTHER  AND  LONDON  79- 

"It's  dreadful  high  for  a  breakfast!  But  we 
must  have  something — to  eat " 

Anthony  comforted  her.  "John  told  you  not 
to  think  too  much  about  what  things  cost,"  he 
reminded  her.  "He'd  want  us  to  have  good 
breakfasts,  you  know — as  good  as  we'd  have  at 
home." 

"I  don't  suppose  he'd  want  us  to  go  hungry,"" 
assented  Mother. 

And  when  they  were  seated  in  the  high,  old- 
fashioned  room,  close  to  a  latticed  window  look- 
ing upon  a  little  court,  the  savoury  breakfast 
spread  before  them,  even  Mother's  soul  relaxed. 

"I  declare,  it  is  a  nice  place,  Anthony!  I 
don't  know  but  I  shall  like  England — "  She 
mused  it  slowly,  chewing  rosy  bits  of  ham. 

Anthony's  glance  moved  to  her  as  he  stirred 
his  coffee.  "It's  like  most  countries,  I  guess, 
Mother,  good  and  bad,  rich  and  poor — "  he 
stopped  suddenly.  He  had  not  meant  to  men- 
tion poor. 

But  Mother  chatted  comfortably  on  and  ate 
her  breakfast  as  if  the  great  beast  out  there  were 


8o          THE  TASTE  OF  APPLES 

not  waiting  to  devour  her — and  every  one — 
in  its  fierce  fangs. 

As  the  day  went  on,  it  became  evident  that 
the  beast  would  have  very  little  chance  to  feast 
on  Mother.  After  breakfast  she  announced  that 
she  had  sewing  to  do,  and  she  got  out  her  work- 
basket  and  scissors  and  seated  herself  by  the  win- 
dow— as  serene  as  if  the  canary  were  singing 
overhead  and  the  geraniums  blossoming  in  the 
sun.  There  was  no  sun  in  her  London  window; 
it  opened  into  a  court  of  skylights  and  high 
chimneys,  with  walls  rising  about  it;  but  it  was 
very  quiet  and  Mother,  sitting  by  it,  cut  and 
stitched  and  snipped  in  safety.  To  all  An- 
thony's overtures  she  turned  a  deaf  ear. 

"I  want  to  get  a  new  collar  on  your  coat  be- 
fore dark,  Anthony.  I  ought  to  'a'  done  it  be- 
fore we  left  home.  It  isn't  hardly  fit  to  be 
seen — "  she  held  it  up. 

"But  that's  my  winter  coat,  Mother!  I 
shan't  need  a  winter  coat — for  months " 

"You    can't    tell    what    you    may    need    in 


MOTHER  AND  LONDON  81 

London,"  said  Mother.  "It's  different!"  She 
spoke  sternly,  out  of  a  mouthful  of  pins,  and 
went  on  stitching  and  turning,  her  face  absorbed 
in  its  work. 

"You  run  along  out  and  see  things,"  she  added 
after  a  little.  "You  can  tell  me  about  it  when 
you  come  in." 

So  Anthony  had  wandered  forth  into  the  great 
town;  he  had  mounted  'buses  and  journeyed 
through  stale  suburbs  and  back;  he  had  wandered 
in  the  parks,  and  watched  the  children  play. 
And  Mother,  anchored  safe  to  her  coat,  had 
listened  to  his  tales  of  adventure  with  her  round, 
wrinkled  smile  and  beamed  on  him. 

"I'm  glad  you've  seen  everything,"  she  said. 
"You'll  feel  more  at  home  now  you've  seen 
everything." 

Anthony  shook  his  head  with  the  slow,  gentle 
smile  he  had.  "There  is  considerable  to  see  in 
London,"  he  said. 

Mother  looked  at  him  over  her  glasses. 
"Didn't  you  go  all  over  town?"  she  asked. 


82  THE  TASTE  OF  APPLES 

Anthony  smiled  a  little.  "Not  quite,  Mother; 
there  are  a  few  things  left  to  see — side  streets 
left,  I  reckon." 

Mother  returned  to  her  work.  After  a  little 
she  spoke  again.  "Wallace'll  take  us,"  she  said. 

And  at  four  o'clock  Wallace  appeared  in  morn- 
ing-suit and  faultless  tie.  He  had  told  himself 
that  he  would  run  in  for  tea — just  to  see  that 
they  were  getting  on  all  right.  Probably  they 
would  be  out — so  much  the  better 

But  Mother,  sitting  by  her  window  with  her 
sewing  scattered  comfortably  about  her,  could 
hardly  be  described  as  "out."  She  had  gone 
to  the  dining-room  for  a  hasty  luncheon,  and  re- 
turned with  renewed  zeal. 

"I  haven't  had  such  a  good  time  to  sew,  in 
years,"  she  said,  slipping  on  her  thimble  and 
plunging  into  work. 

When  Wallace  appeared  at  four  o'clock,  she 
looked  up  triumphant.  "Just  finished !"  she 
said.  "Look's  good  as  new,  doesn't  it!"  She 
held  it  up  before  him. 

Wallace    inspected    it    with    laughing   eye — 


MOTHER  AND  LONDON  83 

"You  ought  to  have  been  a  tailor,"  he  declared. 

"I  took  plenty  of  time  to  it,"  said  Mother 
modestly.  "I  wasn't  hurried.  I  turned  the  lin- 
ing all  through,  you  see."  She  hung  it  care- 
fully on  its  hook  and  came  back  to  the  window. 

"By  the  way,"  said  Wallace,  "how  would  you 
like  to  go  out  to  tea  with  me1?"  He  asked  it 
casually;  it  had  occurred  to  him  that  tea  might 
not  be  forthcoming;  and  Wallace  was  devoted 
to  his  tea,  as  devoted  as  any  Englishman — and 
more. 

Mother  glanced  quickly  up  at  the  bit  of  sky 
over  her  court.  "Is  it  as  late  as  that!"  she  ex- 
claimed. "I'd  no  idea  it  was  supper  time." 

He  smiled  at  the  good  old  word.  "Well,  not 
quite  supper  time,  perhaps,  but  we  might  get  a 
cup  of  tea  somewhere." 

"I'll  be  ready  in  a  minute,"  said  Mother,  and 
tied  her  bonnet-strings  under  her  round  chin; 
and  they  set  forth  into  London. 

"Father's  told  me  a  good  deal  about  it,"  she 
said,  trotting  contentedly  on.  "He's  been  out 
most  all  day,  seeing  things — My,  what  a  racket !" 


84  THE  TASTE  OF  APPLES 

She  put  her  hands  over  her  ears  and  looked  up 
at  him  appeal  ingly. 

They  had  turned  suddenly  out  of  the  side  street 
into  the  din  of  Piccadilly — into  the  very  heart 
of  the  Circus — and  she  shouted  the  last  words 
helplessly  up  at  him. 

He  bent  to  her,  smiling,  and  tucked  her  hand 
in  his  arm.  "You'll  be  all  right!"  he  said. 
"Just  shut  your  eyes  and  go  along."  And 
Mother  suddenly  felt  herself  lifted,  almost  bod- 
ily, from  her  feet  on  Wallace's  strong  arm,  and 
half  borne  through  the  crowd,  her  feet  barely 
touching  the  stones — taxis,  horses,  'buses,  men 
and  women  surged  about  her — thrusting  on — a 
horse's  head  loomed  above  her  and  gave  way  to 
a  great,  shooting  'bus  that  turned  suddenly  into 
a  small  boy,  pushing  his  cart  before  him,  and  be- 
came a  fat  man  running  down  the  swift-moving 
taxi  that  dwindled  sharply  to  a  little  round 
woman  in  a  bonnet,  sobbing  almost  hysterically 
on  the  sidewalk.  ...  "I  never  saw  anything 
like  it — Wallace!"  she  gasped. 

He  patted  the  hand  on  his  arm  and  steadied 


MOTHER  AND  LONDON  85 

her  through  the  crowd.  "There,  there — 
Mother !"  The  word  slipped  out  unawares,  and 
she  looked  up,  smiling  quaveringly  at  him. 

"I  knew  you  wouldn't  let  anything  happen  to 
me,"  she  said.  "But  a  crowd  always  confuses 
me  a  little — someway." 

"Game  little  woman!"  said  Wallace  under 
his  breath.  .  .  .  He  need  not  have  said  it  un- 
der his  breath ;  he  might  have  shouted  it  aloud — 
very  loud  indeed.  Mother  would  not  have 
heard.  Her  ears  were  filled  with  siren  calls  and 
with  the  swift-moving,  clanging  din  of  Picca- 
dilly. 


XII 

IN    A    TEA-ROOM 

THE  tea-room  was  spacious — flowers  and  palms, 
music  playing,  soft  chatter  and  talk;  spoons 
clicked,  little  silver  tea-pots  clinked  on  their 
trays;  and  through  it  all,  behind  the  palms,  the 
music  played  softly. 

Under  a  great,  shading  palm,  Mother  looked 
about  her  with  pleased  eyes.  "It's  a  nice  place 
when  you  get  to  it,"  she  said. 

Wallace  nodded.  "One  of  the  best."  They 
had  finished  their  tea,  and  he  sat  with  a  cigarette 
in  his  fingers,  rolling  it  slowly.  "You  don't 
mind  if  I  smoke*?" 

"Not  a  mite.  John  smokes — when  he's  home. 
I  didn't  like  it — but  it's  good  for  the  plants. 
They  always  do  better  when  John's  home." 
She  beamed  on  him. 

He  smiled  a  little  and  bent  over  for  a  match, 
and  her  eyes  fell  on  the  cigarette — "Mercy! 

Is  that  what  you're  going  to  smoke!" 

86 


IN  A  TEA-ROOM  87 

He  drew  in  a  breath  from  the  lighted 
match,  turning  his  eyes  to  her  with  a  smile  as 
he  let  it  out  in  the  little  puffs  of  billowy 
smoke 

She  watched  them  fade.  "Makes  me  think 
of  grapevine,"  she  said.  "John  used  to  smoke 
that." 

He  nodded.     "We  both  did." 

"I  know.  You  was  always  up  to  the  same 
things!  Seems  queer  now,  with  all  these  con- 
traptions around — to  think  of  your  going  bare- 
foot  " 

Wallace  laughed,  a  little  touch  of  constraint 
in  his  face.  A  group  had  come  into  the  balcony 
at  the  right  and  were  looking  down  at  him.  One 
of  the  women  raised  her  eyebrows  with  a  quick 
look  at  his  companion  and  nodded  gaily.  Wal- 
lace returned  the  salute — turning  his  shoulder, 
ever  so  slightly.  A  merry  laugh  drifted  down 
and  the  party  settled  into  their  places;  waiters 
moved  among  them  and  gay  chatter  of  talk  and 
laughter  came  over  the  railing.  There  was  a 
freedom  about  the  group,  a  little  half-conscious 


88  THE  TASTE  OF  APPLES 

ignoring  of  the  audience,  that  made  people  turn 
to  look  at  them. 

"Friends  of  yours1?"  asked  Mother.  She  was 
beaming  up  at  them  with  round,  open  gaze. 

"Not  exactly — friends,"  said  Wallace, 
" — people  I  know." 

He  turned  his  shoulder  squarely  on  them  and 
devoted  himself  to  Mother.  He  was  a  happy 
host  when  he  chose  to  be,  as  several  women  in 
the  group  above  could  testify,  and  Mother  ex- 
panded under  his  attentions,  like  a  child.  She 
confided  to  him  her  trials  since  this  wild  project 
entered  John's  head — all  her  difficulty  in  get- 
ting ready  for  it — her  fears  and  her  present 
anxiety  and  ignorance  in  the  great,  unknown 
town.  ...  "I  feel  as  if  I  didn't  know  any- 
thing!" she  said.  "I  can't  even  understand 
what  they  say — half  the  time.  There  was  some 
folks  at  breakfast  this  morning — they  were  talk- 
ing same  as  we  are  now — and  not  much  farther 
off  than  you  are,  and  I  couldn't  understand  what 
they  said !  I  knew  it  was  English.  I  could  get 
a  good  English  word,  now  and  then,  but  it 


IN  A  TEA-ROOM  89 

wasn't  like  anything  I  ever  heard — they  kind  of 
run  up  and  down  so — singing-like,  and  not  ex- 
actly singing  either.  ...  I  don't  see  what  I 
am  going  to  do  if  I  can't  understand  the  lan- 
guage!" She  looked  at  him,  pathetically,  and 
Wallace  smiled. 

"You  see  how  quick  you'll  get  used  to  it,"  he 
said  encouragingly.  "I  almost  never  think  of  it 
now." 

She  leaned  toward  him  a  little — "That's  the 
worst  of  it,  Wally — I  don't  want  to  get  used  to 
it — and  we've  got  to  stay  a  year!" 

Wallace  laughed  out.  "You'll  like  it  before 
you've  been  here  a  month — you  see  if  you  don't." 

But  Mother  only  breathed  a  virtuous  sigh — "I 
hope  I  shan't — Wallace.  .  .  .  Anthony  likes 
it.  He  always  does  like  things  different.  He's 
just  that  way  when  he's  home — won't  keep  his 
collars  in  the  same  corner  of  the  bureau  drawer, 
two  weeks  running.  I  have  to  keep  putting  'em 
back  for  him!"  She  sighed  again.  "And 
everything  costs  so!  How  much  do  you  suppose 
we  paid  for  our  breakfast,  Wally  *?" 


90  THE  TASTE  OF  APPLES 

He  blew  a  little  wave  of  smoke.  "Oh — two- 
and-six,  perhaps — I  don't  know  what  they  do 
charge  there." 

"Would  you  mind  speaking  slower,  Wallace 
— just  a  little  mite  slower*?  You  kind  o'  run  up 
and  down  too.  You  didn't  say  twenty-six?" 

"No— two-and-six." 

"That  makes  eight!"  said  Mother.  "I  told 
you  everything  was  different!" 

So,  in  the  great  palm  room,  to  the  sound  of 
music,  with  waiters  moving  on  noiseless  feet  and 
little  cups  clinking  about  her,  Mother  learned 
the  system  of  English  coinage. 

With  the  card  on  the  table  before  them,  Wal- 
lace gave  her  a  first  lesson,  pointing  to  shillings 
and  pence  with  the  half -smoked  end  of  his  cig- 
arette, and  drawing  on  the  cigarette  with  amused 
breath  while  Mother's  mind  grasped  the  items 
and  dealt  with  them. 

"You're  going  to  pay  four  shillings  and  six- 
pence for  what  we've  had  here?"  She  made  a 
swift  computation — "It's  one  dollar,  twelve  and 
a  half  cents,"  she  said. 


IN  A  TEA-ROOM  91 

"And  the  fee "  said  Wallace,  wickedly, 

out  of  his  little  cloud  of  smoke. 

Mother  turned  a  speechless,  shattered  face  on 
him.  .  .  .  "Does  it  seem  all  right  to  you, 
Wally?  I  feel  as  if  I  was  out  of  my  head — or 
something!" 

"You're  all  right — Mother " 

"I  like  to  hear  you  call  me  that,"  she  said. 

He  nodded.  "Yes,  I'm  going  to  call  you 
'Mother.'  " 

She  looked  at  him  with  swift  thought — "We 
must  'a'  paid  more  than  thirty-six  cents  for  our 
breakfast."  Her  eyes  were  on  the  shillings  and 
pence.  "It  must  'a'  been  'three-and-six*  apiece, 
and  that's — one  dollar  and  seventy-five  cents!" 

Half  an  hour  later,  in  the  quiet  of  their  own 
room,  Mother  had  revealed  to  Anthony  the  abyss 
on  which  they  stood.  "It's  likely  to  cost  us 
seventy-five  dollars  a  week  to  stay  here,"  she 
said. 

Anthony  looked  about  him  at  the  peaceful 
little  room.  "It  doesn't  look  so  dreadful  expen- 


92  THE  TASTE  OF  APPLES 

sive,  does  it,  Mother*?  I  went  into  a  place  to- 
day, down  the  road  a  piece,  where  they  had 
flowers  and  pictures  and  lace  curtains — I  should 
have  known  that  would  cost,  but " 

"Wallace  says  it's  these  quiet  places  that 
charge  the  highest  sometimes,"  said  Mother. 
"They  charge  for  being  old,  I  guess.  He  says 
there  are  folks  that  always  have  come  here  and 
always  will;  they'll  keep  on  coming — no  matter 
what  they  charge !  And  so  they  charge — /  can't 
understand  it !"  she  said  helplessly. 

"I  suppose  it's  like  folks  bringing  their  shoes 
to  me  instead  of  taking  them  to  Gibson *?" 

"Gibson!"  Mother  said  the  word  with  the 
finest  touch  of  scorn.  "Gibson !" 

"He's  cheaper — "  said  Anthony. 

"I  wouldn't  let  Gibson  do  a  pair  of  shoes  for 
me — not  if  I  was  starving!"  said  Mother. 
"Wallace  is  going  to  look  up  a  place  for  us.  I 
told  him  we  couldn't  stay  here!" 

"John  wanted  us  to  come  here,"  said  An- 
thony. He  had  a  picture  of  Mother  sitting  by 
her  window  with  her  sewing  peacefully  spread 


IN  A  TEA-ROOM  93 

about  her — and,  beside  it,  the  pretentious  hotels 
that  he  had  seen  to-day,  on  the  crowded  streets. 
He  could  not  fancy  Mother  with  her  sewing 
in  one  of  those  places.  "Don't  you  think  we'd 

better " 

"Wallace  is  going  to  get  us  a  place  to-mor- 
row," said  Mother  firmly,  "a  place  to  keep  house 
in." 


XIII 

WALLACE    GOES    HOUSE-HUNTING 

UNDER  the  appealing  look  in  Mother's  eyes, 
Wallace  had  promised.  But  the  more  he  re- 
flected, the  more  difficult  the  thing  grew  to  look. 
There  were  plenty  of  little  flats.  Wallace  had 
occupied  little  flats  himself.  He  smiled  to 
think  of  Mother's  round  goodness  in  some  of 
them — and  they  were  expensive.  His  mind  left 
Mayfair  and  ranged  through  Whitechapel  and 
model  tenements,  and  dwelt  on  Garden  Cities — 
with  a  shivering  excursion  to  Brixton  and  Cam- 
den  Town  and  Wormwood  Scrubbs — and  came 
back  to  Mayfair  and  the  parks.  He  thought  of 
a  little  house  in  Highgate;  but  he  had  a  sudden 
sense  that  Highgate  was  very  far  away — he  could 
not  run  in  every  day,  as  he  had  promised  Mother 
he  would  do,  till  she  grew  used  to  things.  .  .  . 
London  did  not  seem  adapted  to  small,  round 

94 


WALLACE  GOES  HOUSE-HUNTING     95 

women  in  bonnets — who  made  you  think  of 
apples  and  cookies  and  who  gave  you  the  quick, 
light-hearted  feeling  of  going  barefooted  in  a 
palm  room!  .  .  .  His  mind  travelled  up  and 
down  the  Strand  and  veered  to  the  Embankment 
— and  came  to  a  sudden  halt.  He  was  looking 
up  at  the  Temple  buildings  lifting  themselves, 
grey  and  grim,  to  Fleet  Street — The  Vintons  had 
lived  there — Where  were  the  Vintons *? 

Wallace  could  not  remember  where  the  Vin- 
tons were,  but  he  remembered  very  clearly  going 
to  see  them  in  the  Inner  Temple — the  queer, 
stuffed-in  little  place;  and  in  a  flash,  he  saw 
Mother  happily  installed  and  Wallace  Tilton 
running  in  to  see  her  every  day — till  she  got 
used  to  things! 

Wallace  Tilton  had  been  house-hunting  be- 
fore— but  not  in  the  Temple.  His  usual  method 
was  to  stroll  into  an  office  in  the  afternoon,  se- 
lect a  set  of  rooms  that  he  thought  would  suit 
him,  look  it  over  casually  the  next  day  and  accept 
the  key.  His  instinct  told  him  that  his  usual 


96  THE  TASTE  OF  APPLES 

method  might  not  work  in  the  Temple.  The 
Temple  was  a  world  by  itself. 

He  began  with  the  porter  at  the  gate — a  per- 
sonage in  silk  hat,  brass  buttons  and  trimmings, 
who  had  no  knowledge  of  furnished  rooms  to 
be  sublet;  but  after  looking  thoughtfully  at  a 
piece  of  silver  lying  in  his  hand,  he  remembered 
that  sometimes  gentlemen  going  away  did  sub- 
let, furnished — yes.  .  .  .  The  treasurer  had 
charge  of  letting  chambers.  Quite  so — good- 
day,  sir.  .  .  .  Wallace  mounted  the  hill  of 
Middle  Temple  Lane,  elated,  and  passed  through 
Pump  Court,  where  a  multitude  of  sparrows 
twittered  shrilly  in  the  trees — as  if  innumerable 
little  glass  balls  hung  among  the  branches  and 
swayed  and  tinkled  in  a  wind;  he  crossed  the 
low- vaulted  Cloisters  beyond,  and  another  Court, 
and  went  down  a  dark  flight  of  steps  and  laid  his 
request  before  the  treasurer — who  looked  at  him, 
and  smikd,  a  little  superior  English  smile. 

"h  is  against  the  rules  for  any  tenant  of  the 
Temple  to  sublet — any  person  doing  it  forfeits 
his  lease."  He  said  it  crisply  and  neatly  and 


WALLACE  GOES  HOUSE-HUNTING     97 

looked  at  Wallace  with  his  bland  smile — the 
smile  that  could  not  understand  how  any  one 
could  be  so  ignorant  of  a  primary  law  of 
nature. 

Wallace  stared  back.  "But  I  have  friends 
who " 

The  treasurer  still  smiled.  "I  have  never 
known  of  its  being  done,"  he  said  politely. 

Wallace  looked  at  him  again "Thank 

you,"  he  said  slowly.  "I  have  come  to  the 
wrong  place — I  see*?" 

"The  last  place  in  the  world,"  assented  the 
treasurer — almost  cordially. 

"Do  you  suppose  there  is  any  one  who  has 
ever — er — heard  of  its  being  done?" 

The  treasurer  examined  his  nails,  and  looked 
carelessly  at  Wallace's  coat.  "The  Wig-maker 
may  have — heard  of  something  of  the  kind — he 
is  centrally  located — yes — just  beyond  the 
Cloisters — It  is  quite  against  the  rules,  you  un- 
derstand?" 

"Quite  so,"  said  Wallace.  "Thank  you " 

and  he  sought  the  Wig-maker,  blessing  and  curs- 


98  THE  TASTE  OF  APPLES 

ing,  for  the  thousandth  time,  the  nation  that  sees 
only  what  it  is  compelled  to  see. 

The  Wig-maker  seated  on  a  high-stool  before 
his  effigy,  turning  it  with  skilful,  lady-like  fin- 
gers, looked  up.  His  heavy  brown  moustache 
was  oiled,  his  hair  shone  with  gloss,  and  his  ex- 
pression had  a  kind  of  childlike  patience — some- 
thing just  short  of  shining.  He  admitted, 
wearily,  that  he  knew  of  chambers,  and  took 
down  a  handful  of  keys.  Wallace  followed  him 
— up  innumerable  flights  of  stone  steps  and 
wooden  steps;  he  began  to  understand  the  look 
of  weariness  in  the  Wig-maker's  face. 

Interest  in  the  chambers,  the  Wig-maker  had 
not.  He  threw  open  the  door  of  each  set,  with 
the  same  look  of  infantile  patience.  Take  it,  or 
leave  it — but  don't  expect  him  to  be  concerned 
in  it.  In  the  intervals  his  mind  was  probably 
engaged  in  flights  of  wig-making. 

To  Wallace,  peering  into  cupboards  and  look- 
ing under  sinks,  with  a  haunting  memory  of 
Mother's  kitchen,  there  was  something  oppressive 
in  the  Wig-maker's  aloofness. 


WALLACE  GOES  HOUSE-HUNTING     99 

"This  seems  like  a  good  set,"  he  remarked 
cheerfully. 

"Some  people  like  it,"  responded  the  Wig- 
maker;  and  Wallace  saw  the  place  in  its  true 
light — the  walls  were  dirty,  and  the  rugs  frayed 
— dust  everywhere — "I  don't  think  it  will  do," 
he  said  slowly.  "Have  you  anything  more?" 

"One  more,"  said  the  Wig-maker,  and  they 
toiled  up  four  flights  to  a  set  under  the  eaves. 
"Sea-captain,"  said  the  Wig-maker,  stepping 
back. 

Wallace  looked  about  him;  the  rooms  were 
tiny,  but  spotless.  Out  across  the  roofs  was  a 
group  of  chimney-pots,  and  beyond  a  glimpse 
of  masts  and  moving  water.  "How  much  are 
these*?"  he  asked. 

"Fifteen  shillings,"  said  the  Wig-maker.  He 
was  looking  into  immeasurable  distance. 

"Cheaper  than  some  of  them,"  commented 
Wallace. 

"He  wants  to  go,"  said  the  Wig-maker.  "He 
gave  up  the  sailing  to  practice  law;  but  he  doesn't 
like  law — he's  going  on  a  voyage.  To-morrow 


ioo        THE  TASTE  OF  APPLES 

noon,  he  sails.  They'll  be  ready  to  let  at  one 
o'clock."  It  was  a  long  speech  for  the  Wig- 
maker — almost  committal. 

Wallace  looked  through  them  again.  "I 
want  to  bring  some  one  this  afternoon  to  see 
them,"  he  said.  "Can  you  show  them  this  after- 
noon*?" 

"Any  time  between  four  and  five,"  said  the 
Wig-maker.  "She  told  me  they  will  be  out 
then." 

"She T 

"His  daughter — the  Captain's  daughter." 

"Ah — that  has  a  pleasant  sound — the  Cap- 
tain's daughter — I  think  we  shall  take 
them " 

The  Wig-maker  looked  at  him  without  com- 
ment. 

"Can  you  give  me  the  address  of — the  Cap- 
tain's daughter?" 

"They  let  the  rooms  through  me,"  explained 
the  Wig-maker. 

"I  know — I  understand  it — quite.  But  I 
should  like  to  see  her — the  daughter  of  the  Cap- 


WALLACE  GOES  HOUSE-HUNTING    101 

tain."  He  took  out  a  note-book,  and  held  his 
pencil  ready. 

"She  lives  in  Chelsea,"  sighed  the  Wig-maker 
— and  Wallace's  pencil  took  down  the  street  and 
number,  and  he  shut  the  book  and  slipped  it  into 
his  pocket. 

"Thank  you,"  he  said.  "We  shall  see  the 
Captain's  daughter — at  once." 


XIV 

IN    THE    TEMPLE 

"!N  the  Temple?"  said  Mother,  wrinkling 
her  forehead  a  little.  "Is  it  a  church,  Wal- 
lace?' 

"Not  a  church  exactly — "  said  Wallace. 
"There's  a  church  near  by,"  he  added.  He  was 
not  quite  clear  in  his  mind  whether  Mother 
wanted  to  live  in  a  church — it  seemed  safer  to 
keep  on  neutral  ground.  "It's  an  old  church, 
you  know — thirteenth  century !" 

"Is  it  where  you  go*?" 

"Where  I T 

"The  church  where  you  go  to1?"  said  Mother. 

"Oh!  I — I  shall  probably  go  there,  if  you 
take  the  rooms." 

"That'll  be  nice! — with  me  and  Father." 

"Yes — that's  what  I  thought." 

"He's  found  a  place  for  us,  Father!"  She 
turned  to  Anthony  who  had  come  in  and  was 


IO2 


IN  THE  TEMPLE  103 

smiling  down  at  them.  "He's  going  to  take  us 
to  see  it,  and  we  can  move  right  in — if  we  want 
to — to-morrow.  It's  a  kind  of  church — "  She 
beamed  on  them  both. 

Anthony  looked  across  at  Wallace. 

"It's  in  the  Temple,"  explained  Wallace — 
"Plowden  Buildings,  you  know.  It's  rather 
high  up — four  flights;  but  'Mother'  says  she 
doesn't  mind  that." 

"It  costs  three  dollars  and  seventy-five  cents 
a  week,"  said  Mother,  "and  it's  furnished  with 
everything  we  need — mostly." 

"It's  quite  furnished,  I  should  say,"  said  Wal- 
lace. "Put  on  your  bonnet  and  come  along  and 
see  it." 

He  had  entered  into  the  spirit  of  things.  .  .  . 
Ten  days  ago  if  one  of  the  chorus  ladies  had 
told  him  that  he  would  presently  be  escorting 
a  round  old  lady  about  London,  looking  up 
rooms,  interviewing  Wig-makers  and  Captain's 
daughters  and  looking  into  coal  cellars,  he 
would  have  laughed  with  her  and  taken  the 
bet.  .  But  he  had  not  so  much  fun  in 


104         THE  TASTE  OF  APPLES 

years.  Business  was  stale — any  one  could  play 
it  with  his  eyes  blindfold.  Chorus  girls  had 
their  limits.  .  .  .  But  a  lively  old  lady,  to 
tuck  under  your  arm  and  pilot  about  London 
made  life  worth  living.  .  .  .  He  guided  her 
across  the  worst  places,  for  the  sheer  joy  of  feel- 
ing the  fierce  little  clutch  on  his  arm  and  the 
gasp  of  thanksgiving  at  the  end. 

"I  don't  see  what  I  should  do  without  you, 
Wally!  Seems  as  if  there  was  more  people, 
every  time  I  go  out." 

"You'll  get  used  to  it,"  said  Wallace. 

But,  privately,  in  his  heart,  he  hoped  she 
would  never  get  used  to  it.  She  recalled  to  him 
so  vividly  his  own  first  days  in  London — He 
had  not  presented  to  London  the  same  be- 
wildered, dishevelled  front  of  courage  that 
Mother  wore;  but  inside,  he  knew,  he  had  expe- 
rienced most  of  the  feelings  that  she  displayed 
so  recklessly.  ...  It  all  took  him  back  to  the 
first  day.  He  was  hardly  more  than  a  boy 
.  .  .  but  he  had  done  the  work  of  a  man,  of 
two  men — ten  men — they  had  got  their  money's 


IN  THE  TEMPLE  105 

worth  out  of  him — and  they  had  never  paid  him 
a  cent  more  than  they  had  to — well,  he  was  tak- 
ing it  easy  now — a  week  in  the  country  when  he 
chose — his  own  car — plenty  of  friends.  .  .  . 
There  were  not  many  men  who  would  not  be 
glad  to  be  in  Wallace  Tilton's  shoes  to-day.  It 
would  have  surprised  Wallace  very  much  if  he 
could  have  known  that  he  stood  in  immediate 
danger  of  losing  those  comfortable,  well-brushed 
shoes — that,  almost  any  day,  he  might  find  him- 
self tasting  the  joys  of  barefoot  life  in  figurative 
earnest. 

"I  don't  feel  as  if  we  ought  to  take  so  much 
of  your  time,  Wally,"  said  Mother.  She  was 
swimming  valiantly  up  the  Strand,  her  head 
just  above  water. 

"My  time  doesn't  matter,"  laughed  Wallace 
— "plenty  more  where  it  came  from.  Here  we 
are!"  He  had  turned  into  the  low-arched 
gateway,  and  Mother,  with  a  little  gasp  of  re- 
lief, righted  herself  and  felt  cautiously  of  her 
bonnet.  .  .  . 

Wallace    nodded    to    Anthony.     "You    and 


r 


106         THE  TASTE  OF  APPLES 

Mother  come  on  slowly.     I'll  run  ahead  for  the 
key." 

They  watched  him  disappear  down  a  long 
passage,  through  a  narrow  door  at  the  end — out 
of  sight;  they  walked  slowly  on,  looking  ahead 
to  the  centre  of  a  court  where  a  fountain 
splashed  in  the  sun  and  a  dove  on  the  edge  of 
the  basin  preened  itself  and  shimmered;  spar- 
rows dropped  down  to  drink,  ferns  formed  a 
green  edge  along  the  water  and  tree-shadows 
flecked  the  stone  pavement.  It  was  like  a  picture 
in  an  old  book.  .  .  .  Across  the  court  rose  a 
strange,  worn  building  with  stained-glass  win- 
dows and  quaint  carving,  and  beyond  it  a  flight 
of  steps  descended  to  a  little  court-yard  where 
great  halls,  with  pinnacles  and  towers,  lifted 
themselves;  and  through  rows  of  iron  railings 
and  across  the  wide  expanse  of  grass,  glimpses 
of  tram-cars  and  taxi-cabs  flitted  past.  .  .  . 
But  no  sound  came  to  the  little  fountain  court — 
the  dove  cooed  and  lifted  its  wing  flying  a  little 
away;  it  waddled  business-like  and  brisk,  on  the 
paved  court,  pecking  at  nothing. 


IN  THE  TEMPLE  107 

Mother  eyed  it,  happily.  "It  does  seem  good 
to  see  a  bird — doesn't  it?" 

"There  he  is!"  said  Anthony. 

Wallace  was  jingling  keys  at  them  from  an 
archway  and  they  moved  across.  "It's  down 
here,"  he  said.  He  descended  a  flight  of  steps 
and  Mother  looked  back,  a  little  wistfully,  to  the 
fountain.  "I  hoped  it  might  be  along  here  some- 
where," she  said  softly. 

"It's  right  near  by,"  said  Wallace.  "You 
can  come  any  time — and  hear  the  birds  sing!" 

Mother  smiled  back  and  followed  him  down 
the  narrow  edge  of  pavement  to  the  entrance  of 
the  high,  dark  building.  "Seventy-three  steps," 
he  said.  "I  counted  them — Hold  your 
breath!" 

But  Mother  mounted  on  the  wings  of  hope. 
To  have  a  little  place  of  her  own — a  real  home 
in  the  great  city's  roaring — it  seemed  very  near 
— only  seventy-three  steps! 

Wallace  inserted  the  key.  "It's  small,  you 
know — *  He  swung  back  the  door — and  dis- 
closed behind  it  another  door. 


io8         THE  TASTE  OF  APPLES 

Mother  looked  at  it  blankly.  "We  must  have 
got  the  wrong  key,  Wallace,"  she  said  helplessly. 

"It's  all  right,"  said  Wallace.  He  held  up 
another  key,  and  put  it  in  the  lock.  "They  al- 
ways have  two  doors  in  the  Temple."  He 
threw  open  the  inner  door  and  drew  back. 

Mother  stepped  over  the  threshold.  "It 
doesn't  seem  much  like  a  Temple,  does  it?  It's 
just  a  little  home!"  She  was  standing  motion- 
less in  the  passage-way,  looking  into  a  room  be- 
yond; through  the  west  windows  the  sun  poured 
in,  and  in  one  of  them  was — something. 
Mother  peered  forward — "It's  a  bird-cage,  An- 
thony!" she  said  swiftly.  "Wallace,  it's  a 
bird!"  In  another  minute,  she  had  crossed  the 
room  and  was  looking  up  at  the  tiny,  yellow  ball, 
with  adoring  eyes — chirping,  laughing — the  tears 
brimming  somewhere  in  the  round  eyes.  "Will 
they  let  me  have  it,  Wallace — a  bird — !"  she 
asked. 

"It's  yours,  Mother — bought  and  paid  for  to- 
day," said  Wallace,  smiling. 

A  glance  passed  between  him  and  Anthony, 


IN  THE  TEMPLE  109 

and  they  stood  waiting.  Mother  had  crossed 
the  room,  straight  to  the  bird.  She  had  not 
glanced  at  the  grate  with  the  little  fire  burning 
in  it  and,  in  front  of  it,  the  tiny  tea-table  with 
white  cloth  and  cups  for  three,  and  the  tea-kettle 
humming  on  the  hob.  She  turned  slowly  about 
and  saw  it — and  caught  her  breath.  "Doesn't — 
it — look  like — home — Father — !"  The  next 
minute  she  was  sobbing  a  little,  and  wiping  her 
eyes,  and  taking  off  her  bonnet — "You  mean 

it's   for   us — now — to   sit   right   down   to! 

Mercy  no,  I  can't  eat  in  my  bonnet,  Wallace!" 
She  bustled  to  the  fire.  She  poked  it,  and 
looked  in  the  tea-kettle  and  laughed;  she  meas- 
ured the  tea,  with  a  hand  that  trembled — 
"Seems  as  if  I  was  reading  it  in  a  book!"  she 
said  softly.  "I  didn't  know  anything  could 
happen  like  this — in  London!" 

"Just  the  place  where  it's  bound  to  happen," 
said  Wallace.  "I  take  cream  with  mine — 
cream  and  plenty  of  sugar — Thank  you."  He 
took  the  cup  and  sipped  it  slowly.  "The  Cap- 
tain's daughter  is  a  fine  judge  of  tea,"  he  said. 


no         THE  TASTE  OF  APPLES 

And  while  Mother  drank  her  tea,  and  nibbled 
a  little  at  cakes,  he  gave  them  the  history  of  his 
house-hunting,  and  made  out  for  Mother  ad- 
dresses and  directions,  and  drew  a  plan  of  streets 
and  shops — the  best  places  to  buy  tea  and  coals 
and  butter  and  eggs — all  carefully  gathered  from 
the  Captain's  daughter,  and  vouched  for  by  prac- 
tical, English  common-sense. 

"You  can't  go  wrong,"  he  said  as  he  jotted 
them  down.  "She  has  tried  them  all;  and  she's 
the  real  thing — British  made.  You'll  find  it 
as  easy  as  shopping  in  Bolton." 

"The  man  comes  to  the  door  there,"  said 
Mother,  "and  I  tell  him  what  I  want.  But  I 
shan't  mind  going  out — I've  got  a  good  big  net- 
bag  to  put  things  in." 

Wallace  knew  the  kind  of  bag.  He  had  seen 
them  in  'buses — held  carefully  together  by  small 
women  whose  toes  did  not  touch  the  bounding 
floor — bulging  in  every  direction  and  holding  an 
incredible  quantity  of  stuff.  He  had  looked  on 
them  with  amused  tolerance;  but  now  suddenly, 
he  saw  a  picture  of  Wallace  Tilton  carrying  a 


IN  THE  TEMPLE  ill 

very  large,  well-stuffed  bag  and  escorting  Mother 
through  the  busiest  streets. 

"They  will  deliver  goods  if  you  go  early,"  he 
said. 

"Oh,  I  shall  go  early,"  responded  Mother. 
"But  I  shan't  need  anything  for  a  day  or  two. 
There's  quite  a  lot  of  things  on  hand,  I  see — in 
the  cupboard  there.  .  .  .  Well,  I  must  wash 
the  dishes,  and  we'll  be  getting  back."  She 
rose  with  a  little  sigh,  and  pinned  a  towel  about 
her  person. 

They  watched  her  as  she  whisked  into  the 
room  and  out,  gathering  up  plates  and  cups 
and  pouring  hot  water  into  a  little  pan  that 
she  brought  from  the  kitchen  beyond. 
"There's  everything  there,"  she  said,  "and  most 
of  them  hung  on  nails.  I  never  saw  so  many 
nails!" 

"Ship-shape,"  said  Anthony. 

"That's  it — I've  said  'ship-shape'  all  my  life 
and,  I  declare,  I  never  thought  what  it  meant! 
The  whole  place  is  just  the  same."  She  looked 
about  her,  at  the  small,  shining  room. 


112         THE  TASTE  OF  APPLES 

"You  can  play  you're  going  on  a  voyage," 
said  Wallace. 

"I'd  rather  stay  here,"  said  Mother  hastily. 
"I'd  like  to  settle  right  down  this  minute — and 
not  stir  another  step!" 

"Why  not  do  it,  Mother*?"  said  Anthony. 
"We'll  get  the  things.  Wallace  says  it's  all 
ready  for  us  here " 

Mother  glanced  at  him  doubtfully.  "My 
best  bonnet's  in  the  third  drawer,"  she  said. 
" — I  declare  I  hate  to  let  you — but  that  street 
we  came  through  does — roar — so!" 

"We'll  bring  everything,"  said  Wallace. 
"You  stay  where  you  are — and  be  comfortable." 

Mother  watched  them  go  with  half-doubtful 
eyes.  "You  look  in  all  the  bureau  drawers,  An- 
thony— and  you've  got  to  pay  fees  to  some  of 
'em.  The  Book  says  'from  two  to  five  shillings 
to  the  waiter — and  others  in  proportion.' 
You'd  better  ask  Wallace  how  much  'in  propor- 
tion' is " 

"I'll  see  to  that,"  said  Wallace.     "Don't  you 


IN  THE  TEMPLE  113 

worry,  Mother.     You  just  go  right  on  making  a 
home." 

So  they  went  out  and  left  her,  and  Mother 
crossed  over  to  the  bird  and  chirped  to  him  a 
little  and  looked  at  the  chairs  and  patted  them 
— and  suddenly  two  large  tears  rolled  down  her 
cheeks.  She  wiped  them  quickly  away,  and  two 
more  followed — and  two  more — and  then  a 
whole  flood,  bursting  the  bounds  and  shaking 
her  all  through.  She  sank  into  a  chair  by  the 
fire,  wiping  them  hastily  away  and  looking 
through  them  at  the  shining  room.  .  .  .  There 
was  only  the  humming  of  the  kettle  on  the  hob — 
and  Mother's  little  sobs  breaking  in — and  now 
and  then  a  soft,  quiet  chirp  from  the  yellow  bird 
in  his  cage  in  the  window. 


XV 

ANTHONY    AND    BEGGARS 

ONCE  Mother  was  settled  in  her  nest,  a  new  life 
began  for  Anthony.  The  great  town  drew  him 
— asleep  or  awake,  he  felt  it  whispering  subtly; 
and  often  while  Mother  was  sleeping  or  while 
she  was  busy  with  her  dishes  and  bread-raising, 
he  stole  out  to  meet  it. 

The  policemen  on  the  various  beats  grew  to 
know  the  thin,  gentle  figure,  slipping  through 
the  crowd — a  figure  that  seemed  to  be  always 
seeking  something  that  it  did  not  find. 

Now  and  then  Anthony  stopped  to  speak  to 
a  begging  match-vender  or  to  some  fiddler  at 
the  curb-stone.  For  the  most  part  they  looked 
at  him  with  dull,  uncomprehending  eyes — there 
were  those,  perhaps,  who  might  have  understood 
him — searching — seeking — always  seeking.  But 
they  might  not  speak  to  him,  and  he  passed  them, 

unheeding.     The  power  of  the  city  was  on  him; 

114 


ANTHONY  AND  BEGGARS       115 

the  same  great  force  that  sent  Mother,  palpitat- 
ing to  her  tree-top,  drew  him  out,  drove  him 
forth.  He  was  not  an  American  visiting  Lon- 
don— he  was  a  part  of  it — part  of  its  hurry  and 
life.  Nowhere  in  the  world,  perhaps,  could  the 
shoemaker  have  come  so  close  to  himself  as  in 
the  great  town  that  drove  its  roots  into  the  Past. 
For  years  he  had  sat,  tapping  away  at  the  prob- 
lems and  the  dreams  that  roamed  the  London 
streets.  He  was  not  afraid  to  look  on  at  life, 
flooding  through;  he  had  no  hasty  impulse  to 
cover  it  up  out  of  sight  with  its  wickedness  and 
filth  .  .  .  there  might  be  something — who  could 
tell*? — something  that  might  be  made  as  good 
as  new.  .  .  . 

By  a  kind  of  instinct  he  seemed  to  penetrate 
the  heavy  masks  as  he  penetrated  the  nights  of 
fog  along  the  streets. 

"They  look  to  me,  Anthony,  as  if  they  were 
all  going  to  some  great  funeral  somewhere," 
Mother  pronounced  when  she  had  become  a  little 
accustomed  to  the  streets  and  ventured  forth  in 
friendly  daylight  under  Wallace's  wing.  "I  de- 


ii6        THE  TASTE  OF  APPLES 

clare,  I  never  saw  so  many  folks  that  looked  as 
if  they  was  too  miserable  to  live!" 

"They're  not  so  unhappy,"  said  Anthony.  "I 
seem  to  know  how  they  feel,  Mother — they've 
got  a  bad  pair  of  shoes  to  do — and  they  don't 
know  just  how  they'll  do  'em  ...  no  soles 
hardly,  and  heels  run  down,  and  uppers  pretty 
bad,  and  gaping — but  they  don't  give  up. 
That's  what  I  like  about  'em,  Mother — they 
don't  give  up!  I  can  feel  it — how  they're — 
doing — thinking — turning  'em  in  their  mind — 
and  when  I  look  up  and  see  'em  that  way  in  a 
'bus — all  kind  o'  puzzled  and  heavy,  daft-like — 
I  say  to  myself,  'They're  a-thinking — they'll  get 
it  yet!'  .  .  .  I've  set  that  way  myself  a  good 
many  times  with  an  old,  worn-out  pair  in  my 
hands,  not  know  which  way  to  turn  hardly — 
and  then  all  of  a  sudden  I'd  see!  .  .  .  You 
have  to  tackle  your  old  shoes  in  an  old  country 
— and  make  'em  come  right.  .  .  .  Over  home 
we  don't  mend — we  throw  away  and  start  new 
every  time.  But  there's  something  about  an  old 
pair — a  good  hand-made  pair,  to  start  with — 


ANTHONY  AND  BEGGARS       117 

that  you  don't  get  with  us.  ...  Someway,  on 
the  streets,  I  feel  as  if  I  knew  how  they  feel — 
they  don't  move  very  quick;  but  there's  some- 
thing down  underneath  you  can  count  on — and 
I  feel  it  tugging  at  me — Some  days  it's  all  I  can 
do  to  keep  from  reaching  out  my  hands  to  'em 
and  saying,  'Let  me  take  a  hold!'  I  feel  as  if 
they'd  understand — and  move  along  to  make  a 
place  for  me.  There's  something  big  about  'em, 
Mother " 

But  Mother  only  sniffed  a  little.  When  An- 
thony got  to  running  on,  talking  about  people — 
talking  foolishness  about  people,  and  mixing 
them  up  with  shoes,  that  way,  she  took  refuge 
in  silence.  But  in  her  heart,  she  was  a  little 
troubled  about  Anthony.  .  .  .  He  had  nothing 
to  take  up  his  mind  as  she  had.  The  scrub- 
bing and  scouring  of  the  little  chambers  filled 
her  with  content,  and  the  canary  sang  in  the 
window. 

But  Anthony  seemed  unconscious  of  anything 
wrong.  He  went  out  each  morning  and  re- 
turned at  noon  or  night  with  long  and  interesting 


n8         THE  TASTE  OF  APPLES 

tales.  It  was  only  when  he  talked  queerly  about 
people  that  Mother  had  a  little  sudden  fear 
that  the  change  might  be  bad  for  Anthony.  But 
when  she  looked  at  his  quiet  face  she  forgot  her 
fears.  The  wrinkles  seemed  disappearing — 
only  the  one  straight  one  remained  between  the 
eyes,  rising  to  meet  the  lock  of  hair  that  rose 
straight  from  his  forehead — it  seemed  to  her  it 
had  grown  white  since  they  came  to  London — 
the  little  lock  that  was  not  quite  a  curl.  .  .  . 

Gradually  the  American  with  the  little  white 
lock  of  hair  became  known  to  others  besides  the 
police;  professional  beggars  marked  him,  but 
the  police  marked  the  beggars,  and  they  returned 
to  their  stare  of  match-boxes  and  shoestrings. 

Anthony  moved  among  them,  his  eyes  some- 
times lifted  to  their  faces,  but  oftener  on  the 
dragging,  shuffling  feet.  ...  It  seemed  to  him 
that  never  since  light  fell  on  the  earth  had  shoes 
so  disreputable  been  seen — affairs  of  windy 
leather  and  string,  the  mere  assumption  of  shoes ; 
shoes  that  bulged  and  gave  way,  sloppy  and  torn 


ANTHONY  AND  BEGGARS       119 

and  cut,  shuffling  and  slinking — heels  run  down 
and  toes  turning  up.  ...  Everywhere  such 
shoes — at  the  foot  of  heroic  statues,  standing 
straight  and  high,  made  of  iron  or  bronze  or 
marble — never  to  be  touched.  .  .  .  Every- 
where the  hideous,  sodden  poverty — sitting  at 
the  foot  of  the  heroic  statues — toppled  this  way 
and  that  in  wretched  ulsters  and  shawls,  the 
misery  of  London — not  rebelling,  not  begging, 
not  even  resting — but  merely  sitting  out  exist- 
ence, waiting  for  the  end,  hopeless  that  there 
would  be  any  end — eyes  bleared  and  gouged, 
ears  torn,  noses  eaten  level,  feet  swollen  in  the 
shapeless  shoes — sodden  with  drink,  sodden 
with,  God  knows  what  injustice  and  misman- 
agement. .  .  .  Anthony  took  them  all  into  his 
heart — that  would  have  mended  them — if  it 
could. 

Sometimes  his  hand  exchanged  a  copper, 
sometimes  he  stopped  for  a  bit  of  talk  by  one  of 
the  shapeless,  shrugging  masses  at  the  foot  of  its 
statue;  and,  after  a  little,  he  began  to  know 
them — the  hopeless,  unworthy,  god-forsaken 


120         THE  TASTE  OF  APPLES 

ones,  and  those  who  sometimes  felt  a  breath  of 
hope  with  the  spring — but  curiously,  it  was  the 
hopeless  bundles  that  touched  him  most — for- 
saken of  God  and  men  .  .  .  the  ones  that  leered 
dull  eyes  at  him — under  England's  great  men — 
evil,  dirty,  through  and  through.  .  .  .  Where 
was  God  keeping  himself? 

An  old  beggar  moved  a  red  eye  on  him.  .  .  . 
"I'm  sixty,  come  next  Michaelmas,"  he  said. 

"Just  my  age,"  said  Anthony.  He  had  seated 
himself  on  the  edge  of  the  statue  and  crossed  his 
legs,  swinging  one  slim  foot  a  little  slowly  back 
and  forth. 

The  beggar's  eye  grudged  its  easy  swing  .  .  . 
and  gaped  at  it. 

"It's  hard,  getting  old,"  said  Anthony;  "things 
don't  seem  the  same  when  you're  old " 

Half-articulate  words  answered  him — they 
mumbled  themselves  at  De war's  whisky,  just 
faintly  visible  in  the  blur  across  the  river 
Thames. 

"Everything  gets  old  together,"  said  An- 
thony, "clothes — and  shoes."  His  eye  fell  to 


ANTHONY  AND  BEGGARS       121 

the  shapeless  masses  at  the  end  of  the  legs,  that 
thrust  themselves  out  as  feet. 

The  beggar  shuffled  them  a  little  and  whined 
beneath  his  breath — his  eye  on  an  officer  pacing 
the  walk  on  the  other  side  of  the  embankment. 

Anthony  bent  over  and  looked  at  the  shoes 
attentively — they  had  no  strings,  and  white  rags 
were  bound  about  things  inside,  for  stockings. 
"They're  not  so  bad — "  said  Anthony,  half  to 
himself,  "they  might  be  mended.  I  think — if 
you  would  come — with  me " 

He  got  up  and  the  beggar  got  up  with  him, 
shuffling  his  feet,  exaggerating  their  clumsi- 
ness, and  hobbling  carefully. 

The  officer  across  the  way  strolled  over,  with 
even,  implacable  tread.  His  careless  hand 
swung  out  and  touched  the  beggar's  shoulder — 
"None  of  your  games,  Jack!" 

The  red  eye  turned  on  him  virtuously.  "It's 
his  doin's — he  arxed  me,"  said  the  beggar.  His 
eyes  grew  resentful.  "I  didn't  do  nothink " 

The  officer's  hand  dropped  from  his  shoulder 
— "See  that  you  don't  do  nothing — that's  all." 


122         THE  TASTE  OF  APPLES 

His  hand  motioned  to  Anthony  and  they 
moved  away  a  few  steps. 

"He's  a  thorough  bad  one,"  said  the  officer, 
"bad  through  and  through." 

"That's  what  I  thought,"  said  Anthony. 
"That's  why  I  wanted  to  do  something.  .  .  . 
It's  not  against  the  law  to  do  something,  is  it1?" 
The  question  was  respectful — but  there  was  a 
little  glint  somewhere  behind  it  that  crossed  to 
the  policeman  and  laughed  between  them. 

The  policeman  motioned  toward  the  beggar — 
"You  keep  your  eye  on  him,  that's  all.  I'll  take 
your  name  and  address,  please." 

The  beggar's  lowering  eye  watched  the  writ- 
ing and  followed  the  broad  figure  as  it  swung 
away  into  its  even  tread — "You  arxed  me  to 
go!"  he  grumbled.  "I  didn't  do  nothink." 

"This  is  the  way,"  said  Anthony,  and  they 
turned  in  at  the  Temple  Gate.  The  porter 
looked  out  of  his  box  with  censorious  eye,  and 
half-way  up  the  Temple  Lane,  an  officer  ac- 
costed them — and  let  them  go — with  a  warning 
look  at  the  beggar's  dull  and  glowering  eye. 


ANTHONY  AND  BEGGARS       123 

But  in  spite  of  officers  and  warnings,  the  man 
seemed  to  walk  a  little  more  erect — his  feet 
shuffled  less  on  the  stones.  It  was  only  when 
they  had  climbed  to  the  top  of  the  Plowden 
Buildings  and  his  eye  encountered  Mother's, 
that  he  collapsed. 

She  looked  at  Anthony  meaningly. 

"I  want  my  mending-kit,  Mother,"  said  An- 
thony. 

Anthony  had  brought  his  mending-kit.  She 
had  found  it  packed  in  one  of  the  boxes — awls 
and  thread  and  wax  and  pegs,  everything  that 
could  be  needed  for  a  pair  of  worn  shoes — or 
even  for  the  making  of  new  ones.  She  had 
pushed  it  far  back  under  the  Captain's  bed,  and 
placed  the  box  containing  her  best  bonnet  care- 
fully in  front  of  it.  She  had  hoped — with  that 
box  in  front  of  it — it  was  the  end  of  it.  ... 
Once  or  twice  she  had  thought  of  reminding  him 
of  it,  suggesting  that  he  make  her  a  new  pair  of 
shoes;  but  she  had  three  pair  already,  good  ones 
— and  Anthony  did  not  seem  very  unhappy  or 
restless ;  it  was  only  when  he  talked  queerly  about 


124  THE  TASTE  OF  APPLES 

people  that  she  had  had  the  little  sudden  fear 
that  the  change  might  have  been  bad  for  him, 
and  had  thought  of  the  box  pushed  far  back 
under  the  bed.  .  .  .  She  had  imagined  many 
things,  but  never  had  she  imagined  anything  like 
the  red-eyed  thing  in  front  of  her. 

She  hesitated  a  minute.  She  glanced  at  him 
again,  and  brought  a  chair — a  wooden  one — 
and  placed  it  in  the  middle  of  the  passage-way; 
she  disappeared  into  the  bedroom. 

When  she  re-appeared  she  bore  the  square 
wooden  box.  Anthony's  eyes  lighted  as  he 
reached  out  his  hands  for  it.  He  opened  it  and 
fell  to  looking  it  over,  humming  a  little  to  him- 
self. .  .  . 

The  beggar  watched  him  with  cautious  glance. 

C7C-'  C-* 

His  red,  leery,  indifferent  eye  followed  the 
mending  of  his  shoes. 

Deep  in  his  dark,  sodden  soul  was  imbedded 
the  conviction  that  he  should  pay  for  mending 
his  shoes — not  in  money,  perhaps;  there  was  not 
a  copper  in  his  torn,  flapping  pockets  to  give  up 
— but  pay  of  some  sort  he  would  have  to  give; 


ANTHONY  AND  BEGGARS       125 

his  freedom  or  his  likings  would  be  impinged  on. 
He  sat  waiting,  a-tremble  in  his  old  nerves, 
watching  Anthony's  fingers  round  the  disrepu- 
table shapes  into  shoes. 

When  they  were  done,  and  Anthony  handed 
them  to  him  wilh  a  little  gesture  and  smile,  he 
thrust  his  shapeless  feet  once  more  into  them — 
and  stood  up,  waiting — braced  for  the  worst 

"Do  they  feel  comfortable*?"  asked  Anthony. 

"They're  all  right — "  half-surlily  he  moved 
toward  the  door. 

Anthony's  eyes  were  fixed  on  the  shoes,  smil- 
ing gently.  The  man's  glance  saw  the  look  and 
stopped — the  worn  shoes  paused 

"Thank  ye  for  doin'  'em,"  he  mumbled. 

"I  liked  to  do  it  for  you,"  said  Anthony,  look- 
ing at  him. 

"I  can't  pay  yer  nothink — "  It  was  half  a 
whine. 

Anthony's  eyes  rested  on  his  face — "I  did  not 
mend  them  for  pay,"  he  said. 

The  beggar  braced  himself Now  it  was  up 

to  him.  But  there  was  only  silence  in  the  room. 


126         THE  TASTE  OF  APPLES 

"Ye  ain't  goin'  to  pray  with  me — nor  nothin'." 
It  was  full  of  disbelief — and  a  little  bleary 
hope 

Anthony  shook  his  head.  "I — don't — hardly 
— know — how  to  pray — myself,"  he  said  gently. 

"God  bless  yer — sor!"  The  beggar  touched 
a  dirty  forelock,  and  the  mended  shoes  shuffled 
out,  across  the  hallway,  down  the  long  stairs, 
clumpety-flap,  clumpety-flap,  clumpety-clum- 
pety-flap-flap-flap ! 

Mother  brought  a  basin  of  warm  water  and 
soap  and  carefully  washed  the  chair  where  the 
beggar  had  sat  and  wiped  up  the  floor  silently 
and  thoughtfully — and  almost  gently. 


XVI 

WALLACE    HAS    HIS    APPLE-PIE 

AN  epidemic  of  beggars  began  to  haunt  the 
Temple;  they  could  not  slip  past  the  porter  at 
the  iron  gate  of  the  lodge,  but  they  came  by  way 
of  Fleet  Street,  or  through  Mitre  Court,  or  glid- 
ing in  at  the  Library  gate,  slinking  past  respect- 
able barristers  and  clerks  and  making  their  way, 
burrow-like,  along  tunnels  and  narrow  slits,  un- 
der archways  and  through  alleys,  toward  the 
stairs  that  led  to  the  chambers  of  the  American 
who  was  a  fool.  Sometimes  they  accompanied 
Anthony  himself,  walking,  almost  erect,  beside 
him — past  the  porter  and  the  officers  and  up  the 
Temple  Lane  and  the  seventy-three  stairs.  .  .  . 
"He'll  make  ye  a  pair  for  nothink — and  let  ye 
sit  in  a  chair  and  see  him  doin'  of  it!" 

Mother  always  washed  the  chair  carefully; 
she  provided  a  bottle  of  powerful  disinfectant, 
"used  by  the  Royal  family,"  and  after  each  in- 

127 


128         THE  TASTE  OF  APPLES 

vasion  sprinkled  the  walls  of  the  Temple.  .  .  . 
But  it  was  not  Anthony  who  laid  in  a  stock  of 
hose,  assorted  sizes,  and  doled  them  out  to  the 
nondescript  bundles  that  sat  watching  Anthony's 
little  hammer  go  tap-tapping  around  the  edges 
of  the  soles,  and  the  needle  piercing  its  waxed 
stitches  through  the  uppers.  ...  It  was  not 
Anthony  who  handed  out  New  England  cookies 
in  little  parcels,  and  slices  of  bread  and  butter. 
But  it  was  not  only  beggars  who  sat  in  the 
wooden  chair,  with  their  crafty,  shifty  glances 
on  Mother's  housekeeping,  that  were  privileged 
to  enjoy  her  New  England  cooking.  Wallace 
Tilton,  arriving  breathless  at  the  top  of  the  sev- 
enty-three steps,  was  stayed  with  goodies  from 
the  cupboard.  .  .  .  No  one  can  be  certain  that 
Wallace  was  not  lured  back,  day  after  day,  by 
careless  little  hints  dropped  by  Mother,  as  they 
talked,  of  what  was  going  to  be  baked  to-mor- 
row in  the  gas-range  in  the  small  kitchen.  Cer- 
tainly Wallace  went  about  all  one  morning,  con- 
versing of  steel  and  a  new  refining  process — 
millions  in  it — with  the  taste  of  a  "new  apple- 


WALLACE  HAS  HIS  APPLE-PIE     129 

pie"  haunting  his  palate — not  an  apple-tart, 
such  as  he  had  ordered  sadly  and  hopefully  for 
years  in  English  hotels,  but  a  real  apple-pie — 
made  of  ambrosia  and  love,  with  the  merest 
flavour  of  earthly  apples,  and  a  crust  of  dreams. 
While  he  ate  it  he  was  kicking  bare  feet 
against  the  table-leg,  his  tousled  hair  sticking 
out  of  the  torn  hat,  his  one  suspender  hitched 
tight  across  the  pink  calico  shirt — happy  Wally 
Tilton,  laying  his  carefully-brushed  silk  hat  on 
a  book  case  and  taking  off  his  immaculate  grey 
gloves  to  receive  from  Mother's  hand  his  piece 
of  glorified  pie  .  .  .  and  with  each  new  mouth- 
ful, Wally  Tilton  came  back — care  free,  loyal, 
eager,  forward-looking — as  if  boyhood  and 
apple-pie  lay  so  close  together  that  you  might 
not  taste  the  one  without  calling  up  the  other. 
There  is  no  doubt  that  better  women  than 
Mother  might  have  laboured  with  Wallace  Til- 
ton's  soul — and  with  less  happy  results.  She 
was  such  a  human,  little  old  body,  trotting 
into  her  kitchen  and  out — always  with  the  re- 
cuperative pie  or  cookie  or  doughnut  in  her  hand 


130         THE  TASTE  OF  APPLES 

— scolding  about  Anthony  and  scolding  about 
London  and  shop-keepers — who  it  seemed  did 
not  hesitate  to  cheat  her,  only  she  was  getting 
too  sharp  for  them!  Scolding  Wallace  himself, 
if  things  went  too  ill  with  her,  holding  him  re- 
sponsible for  all  London  and  its  sins. 

Let  him  come  in,  some  dark,  sooty  morning, 
choking  with  gases  and  yellow-black  smut,  his 
nostrils  filled  with  it,  his  throat  raw,  his  lungs 
choking,  eyes  smarting.  .  .  .  But  let  him  not 
therefore  hope  for  comfort  from  Mother.  The 
coal-strike  was  on,  and  Mother  laid  a  tiny 
piece  of  coal  sparingly  on  the  grate  and  stood 
up,  brushing  imaginary  soot  from  her  fingers. 
"There's  no  telling  when  we  shall  get  any  more," 
she  said.  "They  ought  to  be  ashamed  of  them- 
selves, making  coal  cost  forty  shillings  a  ton — 
ten  dollars,  Wally!"  She  looked  at  him  over 
reproachful  glasses. 

"I  know — "  he  looked  toward  the  cupboard 
door,  but  Mother  had  no  eyes  for  cupboards — 
she  was  wiping  infinitesimal  specks  of  black  off 
the  spotless  room. 


WALLACE  HAS  HIS  APPLE-PIE     131 

"It's  a  wicked  price!"  she  said. 

"It's  a  hard  life — "  ventured  Wallace,  "work- 
ing like  that,  six  days  a  week,  out  of  the  sun- 
shine— in  the  dark  and  dirt " 

"Sunshine — !"  sniffed  Mother.  "Where  is 
your  sunshine — to  get  out  of  and  go  down  in  a 
mine  from? — Have  you  seen  the  sun  for  sixty 
days,  Wallace  Tilton*?"  She  might  have  been 
the  Statue  of  Liberty  towering  above  him. 

"No—"  admitted  Wallace. 

"Nor  I !"  said  Mother.  ...  "I  don't  see  as 
they're  so  much  to  be  pitied — down  in  clean, 
warm  mines,  nice  and  cosy,  like  that — no  wind 
and  no  fog.  I  don't  doubt  they  have  quite  nice 
times,  visiting  together " 

"Without  any  air — "  objected  Wallace. 

"They  must  have  air,  Wallace — !"  She 
paused  in  consternation.  "They  couldn't 
breathe — without  air!" 

"Just  what's  pumped  down  to  them,"  said 
Wallace — "How  would  you  like  to  have  your 
air  pumped  down — all  that  you  had*?" 

Mother  glanced  at  her  window — up  through 


132         THE  TASTE  OF  APPLES 

the  layers  of  soot  and  blackness  that  overhung 
London.  "I  should  like  it,"  she  declared;  "I 
should  like  it,  first-rate,  Wally,  to  have  good, 
clean  sunshiny  air  pumped  down  to  me  from 
up  above  right  here  where  we  are!"  She  waved 
a  protesting  hand.  "I  suppose  the  sun  is  shin- 
ing— somewhere  up  there,  isn't  it*?" 

Wallace  smiled  a  little.  "There's  a  theory 
it  is " 

"I  should  like  some  of  it!"  said  Mother — a 
great  wave  of  homesickness  seemed  sweeping 
across  her.  .  .  .  She  went  to  the  window  and 
looked  up.  A  sudden  flight  of  imagination 
broke  forth.  "I  don't  know  why  they  don't  run 
ventilating  shafts  right  up  to  where  it's  clean — 
and  pipe  it  down " 

"So  much  a  foot — *?"  laughed  Wallace. 

"I  wouldn't  mind  paying  a  little,"  said 
Mother.  She  came  away  from  her  window. 

"You'd  have  to  pay  a  lot — "  said  Wallace. 
"It  would  be  cheaper  for  you  to  go  and  live  in 
a  mine  at  once." 

"I  shouldn't  mind  it  so  much  as  you  think, 


WALLACE  HAS  HIS  APPLE-PIE     133 

Wallace, — after  London!"  said  Mother.  "A 
mine  seems  to  me  kind  of  a  comfortable  place — 
all  made  of  good,  clean  coal  so — no  garbage  or 
torn  paper  or  anything,  and  nothing  to  get  dirty 
— no  ashes.  If  they  had  white  sheets  down 
there,  and  bedspreads  and  blankets  and  white 
paint,  and  if  the  coal  kept  getting  up  and  float- 
ing around  the  way  it  does  here,  little  specks 

of  it,  into  all  the  cracks  and  everything !" 

Mother  paused,  breathless. 

Wallace  laughed.  "Poor  London!" 
Mother's  face  softened  a  little.  "I  know  you 
like  it,  Wally;  and  maybe  /  shall  if  I  stay  here 
ten  years,  the  way  you  have — "  She  was  going 
toward  the  cupboard  but  she  turned  back  and 
looked  at  him,  a  little  awe  and  commiserating 
pity  in  her  face.  "Ten  years — !"  she  said. 

She  opened  the  cupboard  door  to  see  what 
she  had  left,  and  took  out  a  large,  noble  piece 
of  apple-pie  and  gave  it  to  him;  her  round  af- 
fectionate face  was  full  of  tolerance  and  pity. 


XVII 

THE     BOOK    SHOP     IN     SAINT     SPARROW'S     COURT 

ANTHONY  stood  in  front  of  the  bookstall  in 
Saint  Sparrow's  Court,  fingering  the  books  a  lit- 
tle, taking  them  up  with  thin,  slim  touch  and 
dipping  in — a  page  here  and  there — and  slip- 
ping them  back  in  place.  A  young  clerk,  almost 
a  boy,  came  out  with  an  armful  of  books,  his 
chin  holding  the  top  one  steady.  He  arranged 
the  books  on  the  stall,  one  eye  glancing  at  the 
stranger,  and  disappeared  inside.  From  the  end 
of  the  court  little  noises  crept  in — the  traffic  of 
Charing  Cross  Road  slamming  by. 

It  was  quiet  in  Saint  Sparrow's  Court — only 
a  few  footsteps  moving  behind  him  breathlessly, 
breaking  in  upon  him  with  the  sense  of  other 
people  near.  .  .  .  Anthony  was  not  quite  used 
to  it,  even  yet — to  being  among  his  thousands 
and  feel  the  tide  pulsing  always  through,  and 
the  great  ocean  out  there  beyond  with  its  low 

134 


THE  BOOK  SHOP  135 

murmur  of  life.  The  books  were  only  an  ex- 
cuse, a  pretext — to  stand  there  a  few  minutes 
longer  and  feel  the  tide  flow  through;  and  wher- 
ever he  took  his  stand  he  seemed  in  the  heart  of 
London.  There  must  be  limits  to  London — but 
he  had  never  found  its  limits.  .  .  .  Probably 
they  lay  off  there  somewhere — east  or  west  or 
north  or  south — but  he  had  not  come  to  them. 

The  clerk  came  out  with  another  armful  of 
books,  and  dusted  them  a  little  and  put  them  in 
place.  He  was  a  most  efficient  young  clerk — 
his  hair  shone,  his  boots  shone,  his  eyes  shone 
and  his  face.  Anthony  picked  up  a  book  and 
opened  it.  "You  can  tell  me  how  much  this 
is — perhaps1?"  It  was  his  best  opening  and  the 
clerk's  eye  rested  on  it,  shiningly.  He  held  out 
his  hand.  "I'll  find  out,"  he  said,  and  disap- 
peared inside  and  reappeared  in  a  breath — "He 
says  it's  sixpence."  He  polished  the  volume  a 
little  and  waited — he  was  a  very  serious  young 
clerk.  Anthony  felt  in  his  pockets  slowly,  his 
fingers  skilfully  evading  a  sixpence  and  bring- 
ing out  something — a  half-crown. 


136         THE  TASTE  OF  APPLES 

"Sixpence  from  two-and-six,"  chanted  the 
clerk  and  disappeared  again.  Anthony  looked 
at  the  door  and  followed  him  in.  It  was  darker 
inside — a  kind  of  gentle  mellow  light,  falling  on 
the  books — brown  books  and  green  books  and 
red  books — dusty  red  books — and  magazines 
and  folios  and  prints.  .  .  .  Through  the  door- 
way into  a  back  room,  Anthony  could  see  his 
clerk  getting  change  from  a  man  at  a  desk.  It 
was  a  happy  little  place,  and  Anthony  took  his 
change  and  browsed  on.  The  serious  clerk  dis- 
appeared again — down  a  hole  in  the  wall,  look- 
ing for  more  books  to  dust,  and  the  room  was 
very  quiet.  Through  the  doorway  Anthony 
could  see  the  man  at  the  desk,  writing — he 
folded  a  letter  and  sealed  it  and  stamped  it — 
and  looked  up.  He  fussed  a  little  at  things  on 
the  desk  and  got  up  slowly  and  came  out. 

"Good-morning,"  he  said.  He  seemed  about 
to  wander  away.  But  Anthony's  look  held  him 
and  he  paused. 

"I  was  looking  at  your  books,"  said  Anthony. 

"That's    right — \ook   away.     Looking   won't 


THE  BOOK  SHOP  137 

wear  on  'em  much !"  He  took  down  a  book  and 
looked  in  it  and  turned  leaves 

"You're  from  America,"  he  said.  He  appar- 
ently read  it  from  the  book. 

Anthony  looked  up.  "That's  easy  to  tell — 
isn't  it4?" 

The  other  man  laughed  out — a  big  genial 
laugh,  with  booming  hints  in  it — but  mellowed 
like  the  books.  ...  It  came  with  a  sudden  ef- 
fect of  surprise  in  the  little  brown  room. 
"You've  got  the  look,"  he  said.  "You're  thin 
— it's  what  you  call  the  Southern  type,  isn't  it*? 
Here — "  He  caught  down  a  book  from  its  shelf 
and  opened  it,  turning  leaves  rapidly.  "That's 
the  one  I  mean !"  He  pointed  to  a  print  in  "Old 
Creole  Days" — "you've  got  the  same  look.  .  .  ." 
He  studied  the  picture  and  the  man  impartially. 
.  .  .  "But  there's  a  print  that's  more  like  you 
— somewhere — in  here — "  He  led  the  way  into 
the  little  back  room  and  Anthony  followed  him. 

"It's  here — somewhere — !"  said  the  man! 
He  rummaged  through  the  piles  of  prints,  turning 
them  rapidly,  humming  a  little  to  himself. 


138        THE  TASTE  OF  APPLES 

"Sit  down — won't  you — yes,  sit  down — I'll 
find  it.  ...  Things  run  away — they  do  run 
— away.  Ah — h !  Here  we  are !"  He  took  it 
out  and  held  it  at  arm's  length  and  set  it  on  a 
disorderly  shelf  among  the  pile  of  books  and 
looked  at  it  and  laughed  out.  "Yes,  that's  the 
gentleman!"  He  looked  at  Anthony  critically 
— "Only  you  wear  two  glasses,  I  see — and  he 
got  along  with  one." 

Anthony  sitting  by  the  desk,  looked  at  the 
picture  with  pleased  interest.  It  was  like  him — 
yes — a  little — there  was  the  lock  of  hair  that  dis- 
tressed Mother — and  the  thin  face  with  its  mon- 
ocle and  deep-set  eyes  and  sharp-cut  lines — half- 
smiling,  half -sardonic — a  kind  of  tragic  face. 
...  "I  don't  believe  I'm  quite  like  that — " 
said  Anthony. 

"No — "  The  man  sat  down,  studying  it. 
"It  was  the  type — I  was  thinking  of  ... 
there's  a  look  about  you  both  as  if  you  under- 
stood more  than  you  let  on — perhaps — "  He 
laughed  again,  half  nervously,  and  looked  at 
the  picture,  whistling  softly  through  his  teeth. 


THE  BOOK  SHOP  139 

"He  had  a  hard  time,"  he  said,  nodding  toward 
it. 

"Inside,  or  out4?"  asked  Anthony. 

The  man  shot  a  quick  glance  at  him — "Both," 
he  replied  tersely.  "He  couldn't  live  with  him- 
self— his  friends  couldn't  either  ...  a  hard 
time " 

The  clerk  came  through  the  hole — out  of  the 
wall — with  books. 

The  man  felt  in  his  pockets — "Here,  Bob, 
bring  us  in  tea — "  He  handed  out  a  coin. 

Bob  put  down  his  books  and  took  the  coin 
and  disappeared — perhaps  to  wash  his  face  and 
shine  his  shoes  and  his  eyes  before  going  out. 

Some  one  came  into  the  outer  shop  and  the 
bookseller  went  out.  Then  two  young  men  came 
in  from  the  street  and  he  greeted  them,  laughing. 
Anthony  could  hear  his  voice — with  the  lit- 
tle rolling  laugh  in  it "Go  right  in — I'll  be 

there — yes — I'll  be  there — go  right  along 
in !" 

So  they  came  in,  and  stood  in  the  doorway, 
and  half-nodded,  stiffly,  at  Anthony,  and  pre- 


I4o         THE  TASTE  OF  APPLES 

tended  not  to  see  him,  or  to  forget  him,  and 
looked  at  books  and  talked  in  low  tones. 

Then  a  little  breeze  swept  through  the  door — 
and  the  man  came  blowing  in,  sweeping  all  out- 
doors in  with  him — out  of  his  laugh  and  his 
smile  and  his  rolling  cheer.  "Well — well — 
how  are  you — how  are  you — !"  He  shook 
hands  with  the  young  men  all  over  again  and 
presented  them  to  Anthony — "He's  somebody 
you'll  like  to  know,"  he  said  to  them;  and  to  An- 
thony, "These  are  two  young  men — they  like  to 
paint — think  they  can  paint  a  little — yes — that's 
it — Mr.  Cameron — and  Mr.  Waitley!" 

They  shook  hands  with  Anthony  gravely. 

"My  name  is  Wickham,"  said  Anthony. 

"From  America,"  said  the  bookseller —  "I 
was  just  showing  him  the  Whistler.  .  .  .  Here, 
Bob — "  The  boy  stood  in  the  doorway  with 
the  tray.  "Put  it  here,"  said  the  man.  He 
pushed  the  print  and  books  along  on  the  shelf 
and  made  room  for  the  tray.  "About  two  more 
cups  we  need,  Bob.  You've  got  'em  down  be- 
low?' 


THE  BOOK  SHOP  141 

Bob  went  through  the  hole  down  below — and 
produced  the  cups,  and  cleared  a  place  on  the 
desk — sweeping  things  into  drawers  and  pigeon- 
holes with  a  little  shining  swoop  that  left  it 
clear. 

"That's  right — that's  right!  Now  pop  along 
and  get  your  own  tea — I'll  look  after  the 
shop " 

And  Anthony  sipped  his  tea  and  listened  to 
the  young  men  and  looked  about  the  little  room. 
It  was  more  like  home  than  any  place  he  had 
been  in — more  like  the  little  shop  in  Bolton 
— there  was  the  same  brownness  of  the  walls 
and  the  dusty  smell  of  leather.  But  instead  of 
Samuel  glowering  over  his  shoes  at  new  ideas 
and  at  the  changes  of  the  world,  there  were  two 
young  men  who  seemed  to  talk  only  in  futures — 
they  made  wild,  hopeful  guesses  at  the  next  fifty 
years;  and  they  believed,  modestly  and  quietly, 
that  they  could  paint. 


XVIII 

THE    BOOKSELLER 

THE  bookseller  got  up  and  went  out  to  a  cus- 
tomer. Through  the  door  they  could  see  him 
talking  with  the  man — and  laughing  and  getting 
down  books.  The  customer,  a  little  wrinkled, 
old  man,  fussed  and  asked  questions — and  the 
bookseller  got  down  another  book.  .  .  . 

"Look  at  him,"  said  Waitley,  sipping  his  tea 
with  an  eye  on  the  door.  " — All  that  trouble 
— He  won't  sell  sixpence.  Look  at  him!  .  .  . 
He  doesn't  care !" 

"Dan  doesn't  care !"  said  the  other.  "It's  all 
in  the  day's  work  for  Dan!" 

"Is  that  his  name — Daniel6?"  asked  Anthony. 

They  stared  a  little.  "Don't  you  know — 
Dan !" 

Anthony  shook  his  head.     "I  never  saw  him 

before — not  till  an  hour  ago." 

142 


THE  BOOKSELLER  143 

They  laughed  out — "Just  like  him!  We 
thought  you'd  known  him — years!" 

"I  suppose  his  name  is  outside — on  the  sign, 
I  didn't  happen  to  notice — "  said  Anthony 
thoughtfully. 

"You  wouldn't  have  seen  if  you  had  noticed. 
There's  another  name  on  the  sign." 

"He  doesn't  own  this — *?"  Anthony  moved 
his  hand  at  the  room  and  the  small  shop 
beyond.  He  was  a  little  disappointed.  The 
man  seemed  to  belong  to  the  place,  and  to  the 
books. 

"He  owns  it  all — yes.  But  he  doesn't  own  a 
new  sign — he's  never  taken  down  the  sign  of  the 
man  who  owned  it  thirty  years  ago.  .  .  .  He 
likes  old  things."  They  both  laughed. 

"New  things,  too!"  said  Waitley — he  was  the 
younger,  smaller,  more  excited-looking  of  the 
two — "You  never  saw  anybody  just  like  Dan," 
he  said. 

"I  liked  him — as  soon  as  I  saw  him,"  said  An- 
thony. 

"Oh,  you'll  like  him — everybody  likes  him — 


144         THE  TASTE  OF  APPLES 

I  don't  suppose  there's  a  man  in  London  so  mean 
Dan  wouldn't  give  his  last  sixpence  to " 

Out  in  the  other  room,  the  customer  had  put 
his  hand  reluctantly  in  his  pocket  and  brought 
out  something. 

"Lost  your  bet!"  said  Cameron. 

"Wait  a  minute,"  said  Waitley. 

"What  did  he  buy,  Dan1?"  The  bookseller 
stood  in  the  door. 

He  laughed — his  gentle  roaring  laugh. 
"Paid  me  a  penny  he  owed  from  last  time,"  he 
said.  He  put  it  in  the  box.  "Oh — yes — he's  a 
queer  old  chap !"  Dan  helped  himself  to  jam — 
sighing  heavily  as  if  the  world  pleased  him.  He 
took  a  bite  of  the  bread  slowly — "Didn't  I  ever 
tell  you  about  Felson — *?  Well — well — yes — " 
His  chuckles  sounded  from  far  inside — some- 
where. "Yes — yes — um-m !" 

"Go  ahead,  Dan!" 

The  bookseller  tasted  the  story  slowly  with 
the  bread  and  jam — before  he  began  .  .  .  and, 
running  over  and  under  and  through  his  words, 
went  the  jolly,  bubbling,  rolling  laugh — like 


THE  BOOKSELLER  145 

fauns  and  little  fishes  and  big  kind  elephants 
and  frisking  porpoises  in  the  sun — lighting  it  up. 
.  .  .  "He  comes  in  about  once  a  week  now," 
finished  Dan  as  he  took  the  last  piece  of  bread 
from  the  plate. 

"Buys  you  out  every  time,"  suggested  Cam- 
eron. 

"Ha — ha — ha!"  The  joke  roared  itself  in 
the  comfortable  spaces  of  Dan's  laugh  and  echoed 
back  a  little  from  the  sides — "Yes — that's  so — 
yes.  .  .  .  How's  Ford  getting  on*?"  He 
looked  at  them  with  sudden  turn. 

They  exchanged  a  glance.  Dan's  eye  caught 
it — "Anything  wrong  with  Ford*?"  he  asked. 

"Dead  broke — "  said  Waitley. 

"Didn't  he  get  that  order — from  the  South 
Guild*?"  Dan  was  looking  at  them  quickly. 

"A  woman  got  it!"  said  Cameron  with  deep- 
seated  Scotch  scorn  in  his  burr — "an  aesthetic 
sort  of  person,"  he  added. 

Dan  roared  again — but  absently — looking 
into  his  empty  cup.  "We  ought  to  fix  him  up 
somehow — "  He  said  it  thoughtfully — "You 


146         THE  TASTE  OF  APPLES 

going  to  see  him  to-night1?"  He  looked  at 
them. 

"If  we  can  get  at  him — yes." 

"Tell  him  to  drop  in — "  said  Dan.  "I  know 
a  man — we  ought  to  fix  him  up  somehow.  .  .  . 
Lots  of  things.  .  .  ."  He  got  up  and  went  out 
to  the  shop  whistling  a  little  and  laughing  nerv- 
ously and  absently — about  nothing  in  particu- 
lar. 

"Dan  would  find  a  job  for  Old  Nick  him- 
self," said  Cameron,  looking  out  toward  the  room 
beyond.  "He's  got  a  dozen  of  us — out  of  work 
— on  his  hands  now " 

Anthony  had  sat  watching  the  men — his  eyes 
shining  a  little.  .  .  .  "He  gets  a  good  deal  out 
of  it,"  he  said  quietly. 

They  turned  and  looked  at  him 

"Dan — ?     He  doesn't  make  his  salt!" 

"He  is  salt — "  said  Anthony. 

"You're  right  there,"  said  Waitley.  " — Life 
tastes  good  to  Dan.  He's  a  great  old  chap !" 

Anthony's  ear  caught  the  little  note  of  affec- 
tion and  condescension  in  the  words.  .  ,  .  Dan 


THE  BOOKSELLER  147 

was  a  good  chap — yes — not  quite  the  equal  of 
future  artists  and  great  ones,  perhaps — but  a 
thoroughly  good  sort  .  .  .  and  he  had,  really, 
a  wonderful  eye  for  the  right  thing — a  kind  of 
knack  for  picking  winners — only  he  would  just 
as  lief  back  a  failure  apparently,  as  a  winner. 
Queer,  good,  old  chap — Dan! 

They  did  not  say  it,  in  so  many  words.  But 
as  Anthony  came  to  know  the  little  shop  and  the 
men  who  frequented  it,  he  felt  it  now  and  then 
in  the  air — something  of  condescending  kindli- 
ness and,  with  it,  a  dumb,  reaching  need  of  the 
man  and  his  big  laugh.  .  .  .  And  down  under- 
neath all  the  estimates  and  opinions,  he  felt  the 
man's  humanness  holding  them  together — lov- 
ing them  all,  not  because  they  were  great,  or 
clever,  or  going  to  be  great,  but  just  because — 
Well,  no  one  could  tell  quite  why  Dan  loved 
them — some  of  them.  ...  It  was  a  strange 
medley  in  the  little  back  room;  old  men — they 
had  lived  through  to — nothing;  and  young  men 
— they  were  beginning — and  knew  a  great  deal ; 
coarse,  heavy-featured  men,  who  liked  the 


148         THE  TASTE  OF  APPLES 

breadth  of  the  roaring  laugh;  and  delicate,  half- 
degenerate  young  men  who  liked  its  humanness ; 
and  young  men  with  the  light  of  morning,  who 
liked  it  for  the  freshness  ringing  in  it — Dan's 
laugh  gathered  them  all  under  its  friendliness — 
and  blessed  them — to  each  other. 

Anthony  fell  into  the  habit  of  dropping  in  to 
the  back  room,  and  listening  to  the  talk  and  to 
Dan's  laugh — pictures  and  music  and  books,  the 
theatre,  politics,  beggars,  social  reform,  women's 
hats — nothing  human  was  alien  in  the  back 
room.  ...  M.  P's.  from  the  North  Country, 
with  a  burr  in  the  acquired  cockney  accent  and  a 
little  roughness  in  their  coats,  fell  into  the  way 
of  knowing  something  about  pictures — looking 
at  them  with  the  eye  of  faith — that  scorned  pre- 
things  and  post-things — anything  that  did  not 
peer  on  ahead  at  least  fifty  years;  and  curly- 
headed  young  artists,  without  a  moral  to  bless 
themselves  with,  were  drawn  into  socio-ethical 
discussions  and  aired  their  views — and  learned 
slowly ;  long-haired  essayists  and  poets  and  near- 
sighted egoists  joined  in  the  talk — and  were 


THE  BOOKSELLER  149 

mowed  down  under  Dan's  laugh,  and  came  up 
refreshed  and  blinking,  and  thinking  well  of 
themselves — and  almost  as  well  of  one  another. 

It  may  have  been  because  Dan  did  not  laugh 
quite  so  hard  or  so  often  at  Anthony,  that  the 
others  came  to  listen  to  his  quaint  slowness.  .  .  . 
He  did  not  know  much  about  pictures,  or  music, 
or  politics,  it  seemed — but  he  had  something  that 
undergirded  them  all — and  while  he  talked,  Dan 
would  sit,  across  the  desk,  a  pencil  in  his  fingers, 
making  little  meaningless  marks,  and  looking  up 
now  and  then  with  a  swift  glance — a  little 
twinkling,  still-born  laugh — that  went  on  mak- 
ing marks  and  listening. 

"He  knows — "  said  Dan. 

Anthony  had  gone  out,  after  a  kind  of  hustling 
talk  about  the  Futurists  and  their  work.  "He 
knows — "  said  Dan,  thoughtfully. 

"He's  fey,"  said  Cameron.  He  was  look- 
ing at  his  nails — regretfully — he  had  a  little 
habit  of  biting  them — due,  perhaps,  to  oatmeal 
diet,  and  it  troubled  his  social  conscience.  .  .  . 
"He's  got  a  kind  of  second-sight  to  go  by,"  he 


150         THE  TASTE  OF  APPLES 

said,  thoughtfully.  "He's  perfectly  right  about 
Carra  and  Severini,  you  know.  .  .  .  But  I'll 
bet  he  couldn't  tell  how  he  knows  it.  ...  And 
you  see  how  he  spotted  Boccioni — the  very  pick 

of  the  lot " 

"Not  by  a  long  chalk! —  Boccioni 
can't  ...  !"  and  the  battle  raged  on — out  of 
blindness  and  life  and  the  great  sunny  spaces  of 
Dan's  little  den  and  his  friendly  laugh. 

Mother  had  her  own  opinion  of  Dan  Boyden's 
book  shop.  "It  must  be  a  queer  sort  of  place," 
she  confided  to  Wallace.  "He  hasn't  got  a  new 
book  in  it,  hardly,  Anthony  says.  That's  one  of 
the  pictures  he  sells — "  she  pointed  to  a  small 
rough  sketch  on  the  mantel — "Anthony  bought 
it — paid  four  shillings  for  it — "  she  looked  at 
him  significantly. 

Wallace  had  walked  over  to  the  shelf  and 
picked  up  the  sketch.  .  .  .  "It's  not  bad,  you 
know — !"  He  looked  at  it  thoughtfully. 

"It's  queer !"  said  Mother.     She  spoke  slowly, 


THE  BOOKSELLER  151 

looking  at  it  doubtfully.  "Maybe  it's — Eng- 
lish !"  she  said. 

Wallace  smiled  a  little.  "I  don't  know.  I 
never  heard  of  the  fellow — "  He  scanned  the 
name  in  the  corner.  "It's  French — but  that 
doesn't  tell  you  anything — !  He  may  have 
been  born  here.  .  .  .  It's  a  nice  little  thing  and 
a  good  reproduction — "  He  set  it  back  on  the 
shelf;  and  Mother  looked  at  it  swiftly,  every 
now  and  then,  as  she  went  about  her  work. 

Presently  she  came  back  to  the  picture. 
"How  do  you  tell,  Wally?"  she  asked. 

"Tell  what?" 

"That  it's  a— 'nice  little  thing'?"  She  was 
looking  at  the  picture  wistfully. 

"Oh — I  don't  know — it's  clean  and  alive, 
don't  you  see — the  lines  of  it — "  He  came  over 
beside  her,  looking  at  it. 

"Yes — it's  clean — I  try  not  to  let  things  get 
dusty.  .  .  .  But  I  don't  know  as  I  should  say 
it  was  alive.  .  ." 


XIX 

ON    BLACKFRIARS    BRIDGE 

IT  was  a  favourite  walk  with  Anthony— out 
across  Blackfriars  Bridge  and  back.  He  took  it 
every  day,  sometimes  two  or  three  times  a  day; 
he  grew  to  know  it  in  all  its  lights  and  at  every 
hour,  and  to  know  the  crowd  that  streamed  across 
it  ceaselessly — hurrying  in  the  grey  morning  to- 
ward the  city  and  hurrying  back  at  night  toward 
something  in  the  long  brick  rows  they  called 
home.  Often  at  sunset  the  smoke  pall  was  lifted 
from  London  and  the  stream  across  the  bridge 
and  the  stream  beneath  it  were  lighted  by  a 
deep,  glowing  sky — clouds  piled  themselves, 
and  the  light  struck  and  glinted  from  the  faces, 
and  lay  on  the  green-brown  water  below,  and 
crept  in  shadows  and  a  kind  of  purple  mist  over 
scows  and  belated  boats  and  far-flying  gulls. 
.  .  .  Anthony,  looking  over  the  parapet, 
watched  the  boats  and  the  sluggish  water  and 
the  gulls,  and  felt  the  crowd  passing  ceaselessly 

152 


ON  BLACKFRIARS  BRIDGE       153 

behind.  He  liked  to  feel  them  close — always 
going,  never-resting;  his  ears  listened  to  the 
rhythm  of  feet.  Under  the  hammer  of  cars  on 
rails  and  the  clang  of  'buses  and  rumbling 
wheels,  he  caught  a  steady-moving  hum  of  feet, 
the  march  of  life  across  its  bridge;  his  pulses 
beat  with  it — and  its  tune  sang  to  him  a  little. 
.  .  .  When  he  turned  and  looked  at  the  faces, 
he  lost  for  a  moment  the  march  of  feet;  the 
faces  were  tired  or  sad  or  set  vacantly  ahead — 
only  the  feet  marched  together.  Deep  in  some 

inner  place,  they  caught  a  common  rhythm 

out  of  sadness  and  harshness  and  injustice,  they 
moved  across  the  bridge.  Anthony,  with  his 
back  to  the  parapet,  watched  them  pass  and  re- 
pass — all  the  shoes  of  London,  old  and  new; 
and  the  old  ones  hastened  pace,  because  the  new 
ones  stepped  to  hope;  and  the  rhythm  slowed 
itself  to  take  them  up  ...  beat-along,  beat- 
along,  London  feet You  could  not  stand 

long  on  Blackfriars  Bridge  without  feeling  the 
pulse  of  London — flowing  to  the  heart  and 
back 


154         THE  TASTE  OF  APPLES 

The  shoes  of  London  troubled  Anthony,  the 
shapes  of  the  moving  feet  on  the  bridge — It  was 
not  only  that  they  were  ragged  and  broken  and 
needed  mending — they  seemed  to  be  saying 
something  to  him — all  of  them  together.  .  .  . 
Gradually  he  came  to  see  that  two  patterns  cov- 
ered them  all — two  lasts  had  served  to  give  the 
shapes;  there  were  heavy,  working  shoes — with 
stubbed,  clumping  lines — and  a  little  obstinate 
and  harsh  and  dull  as  the  heels  wore  down  or 
sides  bulged  and  toes  raised  themselves  and 
gaped;  and  there  were  the  gentle,  polite  shoes — 
with  slim  lines  and  long,  thin  vamps — shoes  that 
did  not  tread  the  ground  so  much  as  move  upon 
it  graciously.  Anthony  watched  them — only 
two  kinds;  and  each  he  recognised  and  placed 
upon  its  last — plebeian  and  aristocrat,  high  and 
low  and  rich  and  poor.  Sometimes  a  heavy  foot 
had  thrust  itself  into  the  slim  shoe,  and  minced 
a  little  and  spread  wide  upon  its  cheap,  aristo- 
cratic-aping sole;  but  more  often  it  was  the  shoe 
itself  that  was  degraded — the  old,  slim,  aristo- 


ON  BLACKFRIARS  BRIDGE       155 

cratic  last  adjusted  to  a  tradesman's  foot,  and 
playing  at  being  genteel. 

Anthony's  eye  followed  them  all,  and  made 
swift  adjustments — a  little  shortening  here,  a 
shading  there — the  slim  last  had  been  too  thin, 
the  clumping  one  too  heavy;  each  must  give 
way  a  little,  to  the  normal  human  foot.  .  .  . 
Anthony  saw  it  in  his  mind — the  firm,  human 
foot,  springing  with  spirit  from  the  ground,  at 
home  on  the  earth  ...  he  had  made  many 
shoes  from  that  last — for  rich  men  and  poor 
men.  .  .  .  One  day,  staring  down  at  the 
moving  feet,  he  gave  a  little  start  and  glanced 
up.  The  glance  that  met  his  eye  smiled  back, 
and  the  stranger  touched  his  hat — and  was  gone. 
An  American.  .  .  . 

Anthony  drew  a  little  breath,  and  his  eyes  fol- 
lowed the  retreating  back — too  slouching  and 
thin,  not  well  set  up,  not  trim  and  well-brushed 
— any  English  clerk  would  carry  himself  more 
sprucely,  half  the  crowd  moving  past  wore  trim- 
mer coats — more  compactly  buttoned  .  .  » 


156         THE  TASTE  OF  APPLES 

but  the  feet  of  the  man — set  toward  the  morn- 
ing. .  .  .  Anthony's  eyes  followed  him — - 
the  countryman  with  the  slouching,  half-formed 
back  and  careless  head  and  quick  step.  .  .  . 
Slowly  something  crystallised  in  him,  something 
that  for  weeks  had  been  gathering  itself  from  the 
traffic  of  Blackfriars  and  the  sky  and  Thames. 

The  spirit  of  England — A  house  divided 
against  itself — high  and  low — no  middle 
ground.  He  held  the  thought,  as  he  might  have 
held  it  on  the  shoemaker's  bench,  turning  it 
slowly — looking  at  it  from  every  side,  half 
thinking,  half  feeling  his  way  to  the  truth  that 
beat  its  rhythm  upon  the  bridge.  ...  A 
nation  longing  for  democracy — and  separated 
forever  by  its  shoes — the  shoes  of  the  past. 
Only  shoes  of  high  and  low,  plebeian  and  aristo- 
crat. .  .  .  All  the  great  middle  class  that 
should  have  been  men  and  women  standing  firm, 
reaching  up  and  reaching  down,  were  content 
with  the  shoes  of  the  dead.  .  .  . 

Anthony  felt  the  unrest  surging  on  the  bridge, 
pulsing  to  the  farthest  limits  of  the  great  town — 


ON  BLACKFRIARS  BRIDGE      157 

strikes  and  threats,  vague  stirrings  of  resent- 
ment ...  he  saw  the  Syndicalist  pacing  the 
deck,  his  hair  blown  in  the  wind.  .  .  .  This 
was  what  it  meant — the  mutterings  underneath 
— a  great  middle  class  in  need  of  shoes — and  no 
shoes  ready  for  them — only  clumsy,  lumbering 
peasant  boots,  spruced  up  a  little,  and  the  slim, 
dapper  boots  of  a  bygone  aristocracy.  His 
quickened  eye  followed  the  lines  again — to 
shorten  them  here  and  make  them  firm — to 
lengthen  that  line  and  lighten  it  and  fit  it  to  the 
foot — his  fingers  moved  of  themselves  a  little; 
and  in  his  heart  the  understanding  grew — the 
understanding  that  had  been  slowly  coming  to 
him  out  of  the  eyes  of  beggars  and  men  and 
women,  and  it  became  a  sudden  quick  sympathy 
for  a  nation — a  whole  nation — condemned  to 
wear  shoes  that  did  not  fit — without  insight  to 
make  them  fit  or  courage  to  throw  away  the  old 
last,  to  take  new  measures  for  the  men — half- 
tradesmen,  half-heroes — who  walked  in  the 
cramped,  ill-fitting  shoes  of  England  dead.  .  .  . 
One  class,  Anthony  noted,  stood  apart — well- 


158         THE  TASTE  OF  APPLES 

shod,  their  heavy,  serviceable  boots  alert  and 
competent;  one  class  did  not  aspire — in  silk  hat 
and  frock  coat  and  smug  green-grocer  counte- 
nance— to  rise  a  little  in  the  scale;  one  class  did 
not  look  down — with  lofty,  clean-cut  gaze — 
upon  the  wallowings  of  the  poor;  firm  on  both 
feet,  they  overlooked  the  crowd — the  one  class 
that  stood  neither  to  gain  or  lose  by  unrest — 
England's  truly  great  ones — the  Metropolitan 
police.  Anthony  never  passed  one  of  them — 
standing  symbol  of  the  Bank  of  England — with 
his  straight  gaze  under  the  set  helmet  and  the 
little  smile  between  the  chin-strap  and  crisp 
moustache — that  he  did  not  look  his  fill  at  the 
comfortable  happy  foot,  in  its  well-fitting  shoe — 
not  too  heavy  for  comfort,  not  too  light  for  serv- 
ice— the  one  shoe  in  England  that  fitted;  his 
eyes  dwelt  on  it  happily,  and  when  he  saw  a  brace 
of  them — swinging  out  from  their  station  to  re- 
port on  duty — he  turned  and  followed  them 
with  his  gaze — as  long  as  the  blue,  easy-swinging 
figures  remained  in  sight.  .  .  .  This  strange 
great  brotherly  nation — with  shoes  that  pinched, 


ON  BLACKFRIARS  BRIDGE       159 

and  shoes  that  chafed,  that  he  was  coming  to  un- 
derstand and  to  love. 

Thoughts  like  these — half-confused,  half -felt 
— flitted  in  and  out  through  Anthony's  mind  as 
he  stood  watching  the  crowd  surge  across  the 
bridge.  ...  It  was  the  American  that  "had 
started  the  flitting  thoughts — the  American  with 
amused  glance  and  trim,  well-shod  feet;  there 
had  been  only  the  amused,  half -flicker  ing  glance 
— and  he  was  gone — and  the  democratic  vistas 
that  his  shoes  had  opened  were  gone. 

Anthony  sighed  a  little  and  moved  on.  Some- 
times, in  all  the  moving  crowd,  he  felt  a  little 
lonely.  Even  Dan  Boyden's  shop  left  him 
lonely  sometimes;  he  wanted  to  talk  with  all 
these  people  on  the  bridge  about  the  kind  of 
shoes  they  wore  and  the  principles  of  Democracy. 
.  .  .  Anthony  strolled  slowly  on.  Suddenly 
he  stopped  and  looked  down — it  was  quite  a  dif- 
ferent pair,  and  they  were  standing  firmly 
planted,  beside  the  parapet — not  American 
shoes — no — too  broad  and  firm  for  American 
make  .  .  and  these  shoes  had  walked  in  a 


160         THE  TASTE  OF  APPLES 

Past — but  not  the  English  past — too  cosmopoli- 
tan for  English  lines.  .  .  .  Slowly  Anthony's 
eyes  lifted  themselves  and  his  glance  travelled 
up  a  pair  of  straight,  vigorous,  English  legs  and 
to  a  slim  waistcoat  and  smooth-shaven  chin  and 
a  pair  of  eyes  that  were  looking  down  on  him,  a 
little  absently,  it  seemed — it  was  a  fine  old  face, 
several  hundred  years  old.  Anthony's  eyes 
dropped  again  to  the  shoes — hand-made,  in  every 
line — a  master  workman,  craftsman,  artist- 
worker — Anthony  lifted  his  eyes  again  to  the 
man's  ancient  face 

"Those  are  very  unusual  boots  you  are  wear- 
ing, sir — "  he  said. 

The  face  stared  at  him. 

Anthony  made  a  polite  gesture  toward  the 
shoes — he  spread  his  palms  a  little,  as  if  paying 
homage — to  perfect  workmanship.  And  the 
man's  eye  dropped — a  smile  came  to  his  face. 
"There's  only  one  man  in  the  world  can  make  a 
pair  like  them,"  he  said.  The  boots  planted 
themselves  a  little  more  firmly  on  the  bridge  and 
Anthony  stood  looking  at  them  with  happy  eyes. 


ON  BLACKFRIARS  BRIDGE       161 

The  man's  glance  rested  on  him,  half-amused 
.  .  .  the  fellow  seemed  to  think  he  had  a  right 
to  stare — as  if  one  were  a  show  window,  or 
picture-gallery — The  feet  moved  a  trifle 

Anthony  looked  up.  "I  should  like  to  see  the 
man  who  did  them — "  he  said  quietly.  "Does 
he  live  in  London,  sir*?" 

"In  London*? — no."  The  man  turned  away. 
He  looked  back — the  fellow  was  staring — rapt  in 
a  vision.  The  boots  turned  back  a  little — "They 
were  made  in  Berlin,"  said  the  man. 

He  could  not  have  told  why  he  volunteered 
it — but,  really,  if  you  find  a  man  reading  an 
anonymous  poem — on  your  toes — with  idiotic 
delight — you  have  to  tell  him — if  you  know — 
"A  man  in  Berlin — "  he  said.  "His  name — I 
forget — Schnappes,  it  might  be " 

Anthony's  face  was  alight — "I  am  going  to 
Berlin,"  he  said  quietly.  "I  shall  see  him." 

"He'll  make  you  a  pair — if  you  pay  him." 
The  man  had  grown  brusque.  He  turned  to 
move  on. 

But  Anthony's  voice  held  him  a  minute.     "I 


162         THE  TASTE  OF  APPLES 

want  to  talk  to  him — "  said  Anthony.  "There 
must  be  a  great  many  things  he  knows — things 
that  I  have — thought  about." 

The  man  wheeled  about  and  glanced  down, 

sharply No,  the  fellow  was  not  mad — not 

even  touched  with  oddity — it  seemed — only 
open  and  straight.  .  .  .  The  man,  too,  moving 
in  his  crowd,  was  often  lonely.  Sometimes  it 
seemed  that  there  was  no  one  in  England  to  talk 
to —  He  looked  again,  sharply,  at  the  quiet 
face. 

"I  can  give  you  the  address — the  man  that 
made  them — if  you  want  it,"  he  said. 

"I  should  like  it,"  said  Anthony.  "I  am 
going  to  Berlin — with  my  son." 

The  man  scribbled  on  a  piece  of  paper  and 
held  it  out.  "That  is  my  address,"  he  said,  "and 
I  have  the  man's,  at  home  somewhere — if 
you  will  come  for  it." 

"I  will  come — any  time,"  said  Anthony.  He 
took  the  paper,  smoothing  it  in  his  fingers. 

"To-morrow  then — about  tea-time."  He 
touched  his  hat  a  little  and  moved  away  through 


ON  BLACKFRIARS  BRIDGE       163 

the  crowd.  Anthony  watched  him  go.  He  felt 
somewhere  a  kind  of  a  warm  glow — as  if  the  man 
were  a  friend  .  .  .  moving  away  through  the 
crowd. 


XX 

ANTHONY    MEETS    A    LORD 

MOTHER  took  the  paper  and  put  on  her  glasses 
and  read  it  slowly — "Raleigh,  63  Portland 
Square " 

"Raleigh's  a  part  of  the  place,  I  suppose,  kind 
of  a  handle  to  it,"  she  remarked;  "seems  as  if 
they  tried  to  see  how  many  names  they  could 
have  to  a  place — over  here." 

"Over  here"  covered  everything  that  was 
English — and  outlandish. 

Anthony  studied  the  paper.  "I  thought 
maybe  Raleigh  was  the  man's  name,"  he  said. 

"Sir  Walter  Raleigh — ,"  said  Mother 
promptly.  "That's  what  you're  thinking  of. 
There  isn't  any  'Sir'  on  this,  is  there — or  'Mr.,' 
or  anything — You'll  find  it's  just  some  queer 
idea  about  where  he  lives." 

And  having  disposed  of  Portland  Square  and 
its  queerness,  Mother  began  to  set  the  table  for 

164 


ANTHONY  MEETS  A  LORD      165 

supper.  They  always  had  "supper,"  a  good 
New  England  supper,  at  half-past  five. 

Wallace  was  coming  to-night.  He  had  fallen 
into  a  way  of  coming  in  for  supper,  making  it  his 
tea  and  dining  at  an  hour  that  would  have  sur- 
prised Mother  if  he  had  happened  to  mention  it. 
But,  though  Wallace  still  went  to  the  theatre,  he 
did  not  so  often  find  his  way  around  to  the  back 
of  the  stage  after  the  play.  Before  Mother 
dawned  on  London — with  her  pies — it  had  been 
the  expected  thing  for  Wallace  Tilton — "the 
rich  American,  you  know — "  to  come  around  to 
the  back  of  the  stage  and  take  two  or  three  of 
them  to  supper.  Now,  reproachful  glances  over 
the  footlights  and  even  illspelled  little  notes 
seemed  to  have  no  effect  on  Wallace.  "He's 
up  to  something  new,"  they  pronounced,  and 
gradually  they  left  him  to  himself.  He  was 
not  the  only  man  in  London — even  if  he  had 
the  money. 

And  Wallace  was  beginning  slowly  to  com- 
pute whether  he  had  the  money — and  how  much 
— and  why — and  looking  into  his  affairs  gener- 


166         THE  TASTE  OF  APPLES 

ally.  ...  In  time  he  turned  his  attention  to 
the  office — old  projects,  that  he  had  forgotten, 
recurred  to  him  and  he  tightened  his  hand  on 
them,  and  on  the  business  as  a  whole.  There 
could  be  no  question  that  he  was  "up  to  some- 
thing new."  The  company  did  not  go  behind 
returns.  If  they  had  heard  of  the  famous  pie- 
and-doughnut  cure,  they  would  probably  have 
smiled,  incredulous.  The  main  thing  was,  that 
the  business  "over  there"  was  steadying  itself — 
and  Wallace  Tilton  was  making  it  pay. 

Mother  looked  in  her  cupboard  and  took  out 
her  best  goodies  and  set  them  on  the  table  and 
sent  Anthony  out  for  cheese,  and  made  the  tea, 
and  was  ready  when  the  two  men  came  in 
together  to  beam  upon  them — out  of  a  clear  con- 
science and  a  heartful  of  love. 

She  had  intended  to  ask  Wallace  about  Port- 
land Square,  but  a  proposal  to  take  her  to  Epping 
Forest  the  next  day  drove  it  out  of  her  head. 

It  was  not  till  just  as  she  was  about  to  start 
with  Wallace  the  next  afternoon — a  little  parcel 


ANTHONY  MEETS  A  LORD      167 

of  ginger-snaps  stowed  in  her  black  bag — that 
she  remembered  Anthony's  "man." 

"I  declare,  I  meant  to  go  there  with  you,"  she 
said.  "But  you  can  find  it  all  right — and  tell 
me  about  it  when  you  get  back." 

So  she  departed — to  join  Wallace  at  the  bot- 
tom of  the  seventy-three  steps.  He  did  not 
climb  them  oftener  than  was  necessary — though 
he  suspected  that  a  certain  feeling  of  lightness 
in  his  legs  was  partly  due  to  frequent  exercise  on 
the  seventy-three  steps. 

Anthony,  left  alone,  fussed  about  the  room  a 
little,  whistling  to  the  canary  and  making  ready 
to  call  on  his  friend  in  Portland  Square.  "About 
tea-time,"  the  man  had  said — that  would  be  any 
time  from  four  to  six.  .  .  .  Anthony  put  on 
clean  linen  and  brushed  himself  carefully;  even 
Mother  would  hardly  have  found  fault  with  him 
when  he  was  ready;  he  had  a  kind  of  gentle 
pride  in  his  clothes,  and  the  shoes  he  wore  were 
his  best  ones — but  not  the  equal  of  those  on 
Blackfriars  Bridge.  He  had  never  seen  a  pair 


168       THE  TASTE  OF  APPLES 

as  perfect  as  those.    He  hoped  his  friend  would 
wear  them  to-day. 

It  was  his  "friend"  he  was  going  to  see — he 
had  not  thought  of  him  in  any  other  way  since 
he  watched  him  disappear  in  the  crowd.  .  .  . 
He  smoothed  the  paper  and  tucked  it  in  his 
pocket  and  started  out. 

The  butler  dropped  a  severe  eye  on  him. 
"You  must  have  made  a  mistake."  He  said  the 
words  stiffly,  his  hand  reaching  back  to  the  wide- 
open  door  and  drawing  it  toward  him. 

Anthony's  glance  held  it  a  second.  "I  thought 
the  name  was  Raleigh."  He  drew  out  the  paper 
and  held  it  toward  the  severe  countenance — not 
to  confute  it,  but  seeking  courteous  informa- 
tion. 

The  butler's  eye  paused — without  interest — 
and  flickered  a  little — and  held  itself: — and 
darted  down  at  the  paper.  He  made  a  little 
pecking  motion  toward  it,  and  the  door  opened 
grudgingly. 

Anthony  stepped  in.     He  looked  up  at  the 


ANTHONY  iMEETS  A  LORD      169 

high  walls — pictures  and  brackets  and  screens — 
and  at  a  great  staircase  ascending  by  a  stained- 
glass  window. 

The  butler  turned  away.  "What  name  shall 
I  give  his  Lordship?"  he  asked. 

Anthony's  gaze  dropped  gently  from  the 
stained-glass  to  the  butler's  face.  "Wickham," 
he  said.  He  uttered  it  out  of  a  kind  of  dream. 
He  had  never  been  in  a  place  like  this.  .  .  . 
It  pleased  his  fancy — and  he  looked  about  him 
happily. 

"Wickham—"  The  butler's  teeth  held  it, 
with  a  little  wrench.  He  eyed  the  slim,  gentle 

figure  again.  There  are  all  sorts  of  lords He 

moved  toward  a  door,  borne  on  stately  calves, 
and  waved  a  figurative  hand,  and  Anthony  en- 
tered the  high-ceiled,  gracious  room.  Through 
the  open  doorway  he  watched  the  two  stately 
calves  ascend  the  wide  staircase  and  the  lofty 
head  outline  itself  against  the  glass.  ...  It 
was  very  quiet  in  the  room — no  sound  could  have 
touched  the  soft-hanging  curtains  and  thick  rugs 
and  the  delicate  blending  colour  of  porcelain  and 


170         THE  TASTE  OF  APPLES 

leather  and  bronze.  Anthony  had  stepped  into 
another  London — the  bleary,  red-eyed  beggars 
faded  to  a  flickering  fringe  of  dreams,  and  Dan 
Boyden's  bookshop  rolled  away  in  a  laugh.  He 
turned  his  head  and  looked  about  him — and 
down  the  long  vista  in  its  subdued  light.  .  .  . 
He  had  always  known  there  was  a  place  like  this 
somewhere.  .  .  .  Even  on  his  shoemaker's 
bench,  tapping  in  the  dim  light,  with  fat  Samuel 
opposite  scowling  at  soles,  he  had  felt  there  was 
a  place  like  this.  .  .  . 

The  butler  stood  exactly  in  the  centre  of  the 
door — his  heels  exactly  together,  and  his  level 
glance  ahead — "His  Lordship  will  see  you,"  he 
commanded,  and  Anthony  looked  at  him  vaguely 
and  followed  him  up  the  wide  staircase  to  a 
great,  closed,  oak  door;  the  butler  bent  his  head 
and  knocked — and  straightened  himself  and 
opened  it — standing  with  heels  together  and  the 
level,  impersonal  gaze. 

Anthony  heard  the  door  click  behind  him  and 
he  looked  up.  He  was  in  a  room  full  of  sun- 
shine— pouring  down  from  the  lighted  roof  and 


ANTHONY  MEETS  A  LORD      171 

in  at  the  windows — and  his  friend  was  crossing 
the  room  to  meet  him. 

"How  are  you"? — Glad  you  found  your  way 
— Sit  down."  He  drew  forward  a  chair  and 
Anthony  sat  down — still  in  his  dream. 

His  host  sat  opposite  him,  his  knees  crossed — 
and  one  foot  swinging  lightly.  It  was  shod  in  a 
shining  slipper,  patent  leather  and  fine  in  texture, 
but  the  same  last  as  the  boots  of  Blackfriars 
Bridge. 

Anthony  bent  toward  it — "The  same 
man — ?"  he  said  smiling. 

The  other  thrust  it  out  a  little.  "Schnappes 
— yes.  He  does  for  me  entirely — I  found  his 
address  somewhere — "  He  got  up  and  fumbled 
in  the  mass  of  papers  on  a  table  and  found  it; 
but  he  did  not  give  it  up — he  held  it  in  his 
fingers  and  the  talk  drifted  to  America — and 
back  to  London.  Anthony's  mind  expanded  and 
relaxed;  little  whimsical  thoughts  came  to  him — 
thoughts  that  he  had  never  mentioned  to  Sam- 
uel, or  even  to  Mother,  or  in  Dan  Boyden's  shop. 

The  man  opposite  with  the  gentle-swinging 


172         THE  TASTE  OF  APPLES 

foot,  laughed  a  little,  now  and  then — and  tasted 
the  slow  Yankee  flavour  with  delicate  palate. 
He,  too,  was  a  little  tired  of  fat  Samuels  and 
obsequious  attendants — and  friends.  He  had 
never  been  talked  to  quite  in  this  way — by  a 
shoemaker.  ...  It  all  came  out  as  Anthony 
talked — the  little  shop  in  Bolton,  Samuel  and 
Simon  and  the  checker-board  and  the  Ministers 
— with  tombs  and  gateways  and  itineraries; 
Anthony's  mind  played  with  it,  and  laughed — 
and  the  man  played  with  it,  too — he  did  not 
argue,  or  explain,  or  instruct;  his  foot  swung 
happily,  a  little  awkwardly,  and  now  and  then 
he  laughed  out  and  got  up  and  stretched  himself 
and  walked  across  the  room — the  sunshine  fall- 
ing on  the  white  hair  and  keen,  thin,  gentle  face 
and  the  delicate  hands.  One  of  the  hands  still 
held  the  slip  of  paper  with  the  address,  and  it 
gestured  as  he  talked. 

Tea  came  in — with  hovering  attendants, 
broadcloth  backs  that  withdrew  and  left  the 
kettle  glistening  and  steaming  gently  in  the  sun. 
The  host  came  over  and  poured  it  out  and  they 


ANTHONY  MEETS  A  LORD      173 

drew  nearer  the  fire,  still  talking — the  light 
from  above  lessened  in  the  room;  it  grew  dim, 
and  the  firelight  conquered  it,  before  his  lord- 
ship held  out  the  slip  of  paper  in  his  thin  fingers 
and  Anthony  stood  up,  blinking  a  little. 

"I'll  give  you  a  note  to  him  if  you  like.  You 
must  come  to  my  place  up  in  the  country.  You'll 
like  it  there,  I  think.  We  have  a  great  deal 
to  talk  about.  I  am  glad  to  have  met  you — " 
He  held  out  his  hand. 

So  Anthony  found  his  way  down  the  spacious 
stair-case  where  His  Stiffness  offered  a  hat  in 
respectful  fingers  and  held  the  door  wide  for 
him  to  go.  "Wickham" — Lord  Wickham — *? 
It  might  be — you  never  can  tell — with  these 
modern  Lords.  He  closed  the  door  softly  and 
respectfully  behind  the  shoemaker-lord;  and 
Anthony  went  down  the  steps — back  to  his  long, 
drab  world  of  shoes  and  beggars  and  shuffling 
feet. 


XXI 

MOTHER    AND    THE    LONDON      BUS 

So,  through  shoes  and  through  beggars  and  a 
lord  or  two,  and  through  the  book-shop  and  Wal- 
lace Til  ton,  London  opened  its  doors  to  Anthonv 
Wickham  and  his  wife. 

To  Mother,  it  is  true,  it  made  small  difference 
whether  doors  opened  or  not;  safe  behind  her 
own  door,  her  two  doors,  with  her  canary  and 
her  gas-stove,  she  found  plenty  to  do.  She  only 
left  the  nest  on  swift,  hurried  forays  for  food, 
hurrying  along  Fleet  Street — through  the  rum- 
ble and  traffic — with  her  net-bag  grasped  tight 
around  the  top,  darting  in  at  the  Temple  Gate 
at  last  with  a  sigh  of  relief.  Under  Wallace's 
protecting  wing,  she  explored  wider  reaches — 
but  always  with  a  little  superior,  detached  scorn 
that  left  her  untouched  by  the  roaring  life  about 
her. 

Perhaos  her  nearest  conception  of  it  came 
174 


MOTHER  AND  THE  'BUS        175 

from  the  top  of  'buses,  where  mounted  high  out 
of  danger  she  looked  down  on  silly  London 
scudding  this  way  and  that. 

"It's  a  kind  of  game,  London  is,  isn't  it, 
Wally  *?"  she  said  one  day. 

They  were  sitting  on  the  top  of  No.  13,  on 
the  front  seat,  and  they  had  halted  a  minute, 
before  an  outstretched  blue  arm,  on  the  verge 
of  Piccadilly.  Mother  leaned  over  the  front 
board  and  looked  on  the  hurrying,  scurrying, 
shooting  mass — She  watched  the  taxis  rush  and 
turn  and  thread  their  way,  grazing  by  a  breath's 
gaze  with  their  sliding  wheels. 

"It's  a  kind  of  game,  Wally! — If  you  watch, 
up  here,  you  can  see  how  they  do  it,  can't  you !" 

Wally  leaned  over  beside  her  and  watched 
the  game.  He  had  no  longer  any  shy  discretion 
at  being  seen  on  the  front  seat  of  No.  13,  with 
a  little  round  woman  beaming  in  a  bonnet.  He 
seemed  to  have  come  into  a  place  where  such 
things  did  not  matter.  .  .  .  He  watched  the 
shining,  darting  wheels.  It  was  a  game — the 
game  of  London,  playing  on  the  stones.  .  .  . 


176         THE  TASTE  OF  APPLES 

A  cool  head  and  quick  hand  to  play  it;  but  there 
was  zest  about  it — give  and  take,  seize  your 
chance — keep  it  on  the  move.  .  .  .  The  block 
gave  way — the  policeman's  big  foot  strolled  to 
the  curb.  No.  13  seized  its  chance  and  darted 
by  a  slower-witted,  waiting  'bus  and  dodged  in 
front  and  honked  a  little  and  was  off  on 
chugging  wheel.  "Full-up,  full-up!'*  chanted 
the  conductor  his  voice  coming  up,  courteous 
and  wary,  from  below — "Sorry,  sir — Full-up, 
full-up!" — and  pedestrians  scowled  up  and 
turned  away,  and  seized  another  chance — and 
Number  13  went  chugging,  chumping,  rumbling 
on  its  way. 

It  was  on  a  Whitechapel  'bus  that  Mother 
came  on  Tony  Wasson.  She  saw  him  from  the 
top  and  insisted  on  getting  down  to  speak  to 
him.  "I  know  it's  him,  Wally.  He's  got  on 
the  shoes  Anthony  mended  for  him — and  the 
stockings  I  gave  him,  I  don't  doubt."  She 
stood  up,  wavering  plumply  as  the  'bus  came  to 
a  halt,  and  Wallace  helped  her  down  the  cork- 
screw stair.  The  'bus  had  gone  by  the  sham- 


MOTHER  AND  THE  'BUS        177 

bling  figure;  and  they  wandered  back,  looking 
here  and  there  in  the  crowd. 

"He's  gone  by  this  time,  Mother.  You  won't 
find  him — better  take  the  next  'bus " 

But  Mother  was  firm,  and  at  last  they  came 
on  him,  at  a  turn,  bending  to  adjust  the  thick 
strap  of  the  basket  on  his  shoulder.  He  let  fall 
the  strap  when  he  saw  the  round  face  in  its 
bonnet. 

He  touched  his  hat — "Morning,  ma'am " 

Mother  held  out  her  hand.  She  had  liked 
this  man — the  best  of  them  all — her  keen  eyes 
had  detected  a  difference;  he  had  not  whined 
when  he  accepted  the  stockings  and  the  mended 
shoes;  and  when  she  handed  him  cookies  he  had 
looked  at  her  straight.  "The  children  would 
like  them,"  he  had  said.  Mother  had  thought 
of  the  children  many  times  since — as  she  rolled 
out  her  cookies,  or  took  them,  brown  and  fra- 
grant, from  her  oven — "Did  they  like  them*?" 
she  asked,  still  holding  out  her  hand. 

The  man  rubbed  his  hand,  a  little  shyly,  on 
his  coat,  and  took  the  round  one. 


178         THE  TASTE  OF  APPLES 

"They  had  a  treat  with  'em,  ma'am,"  he  said. 
"They've  spoke  about  it  since — many  a  time." 
He  bent  his  shoulder  again  toward  the  strap. 

Mother  looked  curiously  into  the  basket. 
"You're  selling  bananas,"  she  said. 

She  fingered  them  a  little  and  talked  and  Tony 
talked  .  .  .  and  Mother  counted  her  change. 

In  the  end,  two  dozen  bananas  bulged  in  Wal- 
lace's arms,  and  they  were  walking  along  with 
Tony,  the  heavy  strap  adjusted  to  his  shoulder 
— the  youngest  child  was  ill,  yes — a  fever.  He 
climbed  up  the  stairs,  ahead  of  them,  and  opened 
the  door  cautiously. 

A  young  woman,  in  a  nurse's  cap  and  apron, 
came  forward  with  her  finger  at  her  lip. 

Tony  Wasson  pointed  to  his  companions  and 
slipped  the  strap  from  his  shoulder.  The  nurse 
beckoned  them  into  another  room,  closing  the 
door  softly — "He's  asleep,"  she  said. 

"How  is  he*?"  asked  the  man.  His  hands 
hung  at  his  sides  and  the  fingers  fumbled  a  little 
at  his  coat. 

"Better,"  said  the  nurse.     "The  fever  broke 


MOTHER  AND  THE  'BUS        179 

this  morning.  He  will  feel  like  himself  when 
he  wakes." 

Other  children  came  hurrying  up  the  stair 
from  school,  and  the  nurse  set  out  luncheon  for 
them,  and  quieted  them.  Wallace  Tilton,  sit- 
ting at  one  side,  watched  her  waiting  on  the  chil- 
dren. Mother  talked  with  Tony  Wasson.  .  .  . 
By-and-by  she  tiptoed  into  the  bedroom;  the 
children,  with  another  slice  of  bread  and  a  banana 
from  the  basket,  rushed  back  to  school. 

The  nurse  stirred  something  in  a  little  basin 
on  the  stove.  Mother  came  out  and  beckoned 
to  her  and  they  talked,  the  nurse  stirring  the 
gruel  with  careful,  listening  spoon;  she  looked 
up  and  smiled  and  nodded  and  they  went  into 
the  bedroom.  When  they  came  out  Wallace 
and  Tony  Wasson  were  deep  in  Woman's  Suf- 
frage. "She  could  vote  all  right — "  Tony  jerked 
a  thumb  toward  the  basin  of  gruel  in  the  win- 
dow. "She  could  do  it  all  right — It's  them  hus- 
sies in  the  shops  as  I  wouldn't  trust — wi'  the 
vote — nor  wi'  onything!"  he  added  darkly. 

The  nurse  appeared  in  the  doorway.     "He's 


i8o         THE  TASTE  OF  APPLES 

waked  up,"  she  said.  "He's  like  himself.  She 
took  up  the  basin  of  gruel,  blowing  it  a  little 

Tony  went  into  the  bedroom. 

Mother  gathered  up  her  black  bag  and 
straightened  her  bonnet  a  little  and  put  on  her 
cotton  gloves.  "I'll  send  'em  right  away — " 
she  said,  "this  afternoon — Wally*!!  see  to  it." 


XXII 

NURSE    TIMBERLAKE 

ANTHONY  was  ill.  Mother  discovered  it  long 
before  Anthony  knew  it  himself.  When  he  re- 
fused the  doughnut  she  looked  at  him  sharply. 
That  afternoon  she  scurried  out  to  a  chemist's 
and  brought  back  a  packet  of  boneset,  which  she 
steeped  on  the  gas-stove  and  gave  him,  bitterly, 
to  drink.  The  next  day  he  refused  the  piece 
of  pie,  and  she  told  Wallace. 

"He's  heavy  and  logy,  and  his  head's  hot;  he 
didn't  take  the  doughnut.  I  don't  see  how  I 
can  have  him  sick  in  London." 

Wallace  suggested  a  doctor.  The  next  day 
Anthony  stayed  in  all  day,  and  at  night  the 
doctor  came. 

"A  little  fever — nothing  serious;  keep  him 
quiet  and  feed  him  light." 

Mother  put  on  her  second-best  apron  and  sent 

Wallace  for  beef-extract.     But  Wallace  was  not 

181 


182         THE  TASTE  OF  APPLES 

always  at  hand,  and  Mother  toiled  up  and  down 
seventy- three  steps  many  times  a  day;  loss  of 
sleep  began  to  tell  on  her.  Wallace  proposed 
a  nurse. 

Mother  shook  her  head.  "I  don't  want  any 
strange  woman  taking  care  of  him"  she  said. 

"Have  a  man." 

"He'd  be  in  the  way,"  said  Mother. 

The  next  day  when  Wallace  appeared  Mother 
looked  up  and  squinted  a  little  through  her 
glasses — some  one  was  with  him.  Mother 
looked  again.  She  held  out  both  hands. 
"Well,  I'm  glad  to  see  you"  she  said. 

The  nurse  smiled.  "Mr.  Tilton  said  you 
mightn't  want  me " 

"I  told  Wally  I  didn't  want  any  strange 
women  around — he  might  'a'  known,  well 
enough,  I'd  want  you — How's  the  little  boy1?" 

"He's  quite  well — in  school  again — I  saw  him 
yesterday."  The  nurse  had  taken  off  her  long 
cape  and  bonnet  and  was  moving  about  the  room 
as  if  she  had  always  lived  there. 

Mother  watched  her  approvingly.     "You're 


NURSE  TIMBERLAKE  183 

the  kind  to  take  right  hold — I  don't  know  why 
I  didn't  think  of  you — How  did  Wally  find 
you?" 

"He  enquired  of  Tony,  I  suppose — most  of 
my  work  lies  in  that  district;  I  was  just  through 
with  a  case — "  She  glanced  at  the  adjoining 
room — "You  can  lie  down  now  and  get  a  good 
rest.  I'll  call  you  if  I  need  anything." 

"You  don't  know  where  things  are " 

The  nurse  smiled.  "I  think  I  can  find  them 
here.  I'm  used  to  places  where  everything's  in 
confusion,  you  know." 

"Well — I  guess  I'll  let  you.  I  am  tired." 
Mother  took  off  her  glasses  and  put  them  in  their 
case.  "You  can  stay  all  the  afternoon,  can 
you*?"  she  asked  doubtfully. 

"As  long  as  you  want  me — Mr.  Tilton  said 
you  might  need  me  some  time." 

So  Mother  lay  down  in  the  darkened  room 
and  fell  asleep  like  a  child;  and  Nurse  Timber- 
lake  went  to  and  fro,  smiling  at  the  compact  ar- 
rangement of  the  little  set  of  chambers.  There 
was  everything  in  the  big  cupboard  that  one 


184         THE  TASTE  OF  APPLES 

could  need  for  a  siege,  and  the  coal-box  was 
filled  to  the  top. 

She  was  not  accustomed  to  having  everything 
to  hand.  Many  of  the  places  where  she  went 
to  nurse  had  no  cupboard;  and  when  they  had 
one  it  was,  more  often  than  not,  empty;  and 
coal  came  by  the  scuttleful.  ...  It  was  part 
of  the  strenuous  training,  to  evoke  coal  from 
the  depths,  and  to  make  gruel  of  water  and  air, 
and  a  very  little  flour — and  be  thankful  for  salt. 
Often  during  her  apprenticeship  she  had  cried 
at  night  from  aching  feet  and  from  the  ignorance 
and  emptiness  of  cupboards.  Now,  it  was  all 
in  the  day's  work.  What  the  dispensary  could 
supply,  she  took  promptly;  and  what  could  not 
be  supplied,  either  by  the  dispensary  or  the  so- 
ciety or  by  mother-wit,  she  went  without.  The 
sentiment  of  over-pity  for  herself,  or  for  the  very 
poor,  was  a  luxury!  She  had  let  luxuries  go — 
when  she  became  district  nurse. 

She  bent  over  Anthony,  offering  the  cup  of 
broth,  and  he  drank  it  slowly 

"Where  is  Mother?"  he  asked. 


NURSE  TIMBERLAKE  185 

"Lying  down — asleep,"  said  Nurse  Timber- 
lake. 

"That's  good — "  It  was  hardly  more  than 
a  faint  whisper — "How  did  you  get  in1?"  he 
asked  after  a  minute. 

The  nurse  smiled.  "It's  all  right — she  knows 
I'm  here.  She  wants  me." 

Anthony's  face  relaxed.  "You — under — 
stand  Mother — "  he  said,  and  dozed  content- 
edly. 

An  hour  later,  when  Wallace  came  back,  the 
nurse  was  sitting  by  the  window  under  the  bird- 
cage, reading.  A  cloth  had  been  thrown  over 
the  cage  to  keep  the  bird  quiet.  She  looked  up, 
as  the  door  opened,  and  put  up  her  finger  and 
came  out  to  the  landing,  closing  the  door  softly 
behind  her. 

"How  are  they?"  he  said. 

"Sleeping — both  of  them — "  she  held  one 
hand  on  the  door,  ready  to  go  back. 

"Is  there  anything  I  can  do — or  get*?"  He 
was  noticing  that  little  white  caps  make  a  pretty 
frame  for  a  youngish  face. 


i86        THE  TASTE  OF  APPLES 

The  face  shook  itself.  "There  isn't  anything 
any  one  can  get.  I  never  saw  such  a  cup- 
board  " 

Wallace  smiled  back— "That's  Mother!" 
He  stood  a  few  minutes  longer,  asking  about 
Anthony,  and  noting  how  the  light  from  the 
window  fell  on  the  face,  making  little  rays  of 
the  cap-frill.  .  .  .  "Well,  let  me  know — I 
won't  come  in — no.  There's  a  telephone  on  the 
ground  floor.  I  asked  as  I  came  up — you  can 
use  it,  yes.  Good-day " 

He  went  slowly  down  the  steps,  a  feeling  of 
relief  gathering  with  each  flight — She  was  evi- 
dently competent — and  Mother  needed  some  one 
— and  not  bad  looking.  .  .  .  He  ran  down 
the  last  few  steps  like  a  boy — he  would  come 
back  to  enquire  again,  before  he  went  to  sleep. 


XXIII 

A    GOOD    WIFE    FOR  JOHN 

"SHE'LL  make  a  good  wife  for  John — "  an- 
nounced Mother. 

Anthony  was  sitting  up,  with  a  blanket  across 
his  knees.  Mother  had  just  given  him  his  broth. 
Nurse  Timberlake  was  gone  for  a  walk  in  the 
Embankment  Gardens.  Wallace  Tilton  had  in- 
sisted on  her  going  for  a  walk,  and  had  attended 
to  it  by  going  with  her  himself  as  she  started 
away. 

They  were  sitting  on  a  bench  watching  three 
ragamuffins  tumbling  on  the  back  of  the  bench 
just  beyond.  A  gentleman  in  a  silk  hat,  sat 
erect  at  the  end  of  the  bench  nursing  his  cane 
— after  a  minute  he  rose  and  walked  stiffly  away ; 
the  three  boys  stared  after  him — they  turned  an- 
other somersault,  kicking  their  heels — one  of 
them  wore  a  shabby  shoe  laced  neatly  to  the  top* 

the  other  foot  entirely  bare. 

187 


188         THE  TASTE  OF  APPLES 

Wallace  watched  them  tumble — "Poor  little 
beggars !"  he  said. 

Nurse  Timberlake  smiled.  "They're  not 
hungry,"  she  replied. 

He  looked  at  her.     "How  do  you  know*?" 

"One  gets  to  tell." 

Three  soldiers,  off  duty,  came  clinking  into 
sight  along  the  gravel  path,  marching  abreast — 
legs  free,  heads  up,  chins  in;  they  passed  the 
bench  of  ragamuffins,  and  swung  on.  .  .  .  The 
ragamuffins  floated  to  the  ground  and  picked  up 
the  step  and  strode  behind,  backs  stiff,  heads  up, 
chins  in  air — the  glory  of  the  British  Army  in 
their  heels. 

Wallace  Tilton  laughed.  "I  believe  you're 
right!  How  did  you  get  to  know  them  so 
well"?" 

They  got  up  and  strolled  on  through  the  Park, 
talking  of  her  work  and  of  London.  They  had 
walked  many  times  like  this  in  the  Gardens. 
Anthony  had  been  ill  five  weeks  now,  and  they 
had  fallen  into  a  way  of  coming  to  the  Gardens 
when  Nurse  Timberlake  took  her  afternoon  time 


A  GOOD  WIFE  FOR  JOHN       189 

off.  She  would  je  going  away  soon.  Anthony 
was  better — nea^y  well — but  Wallace  haJ  per- 
suaded her  to  stay.  Mother  needed  her,  he  >ad 
said. 

Mother  loo"  sd  again  over  her  glasses, 
shrewdly,  at  /  athony.  "She'll  make  the  best 
kind  of  wife  for  John,"  she  said. 

Anthony  smiled  a  little,  "Better  than  Lydia 
Bacon*?"  he  asked. 

Mother  looked  at  him.  "I  shouldn't  have 
let  him  marry  Lydia — in  any  case  .  .  .  and  he 
never  wanted  to  marry  her!"  she  added  trium- 
phantly. 

"No — "  Anthony  looked  up  at  the  west  win- 
dow. Great  clouds  of  light  were  flooding  the 
sky.  "How  long  is  it  before  John  comes1?"  he 
asked. 

"Three  weeks,"  said  Mother,  promptly. 
"He'll  have  a  chance  to  see  her.  I'm  going  to 
invite  her  to  tea  some  afternoon.  I've  got  it  all 
planned  out!"  She  rolled  up  her  work  and  laid 
it  aside. 


190         THE  TASTE  OF  APPLES 

Anthony  reached  a  thin  hand  to  her.  "Don't 
count  too  much,  on — John,  Mother,"  he  said 
gently. 

Mother  looked  at  him.  "You  feeling  all 
right,  Anthony?" 

"Yes—"  He  smiled.  "I'm  all  right— but  I 
don't  want  you  to  be  disap — "  Mother  had  dis- 
appeared into  her  kitchen.  .  .  .  "She  may  be 
interested  in  somebody  else — "  said  Anthony 
softly. 

Mother  did  not  hear.  She  was  absorbed  in 
something  on  her  stove — communing  with  it — 
and  before  she  had  finished,  Nurse  Timberlake 
came  back  from  her  walk — nothing  more 
could  be  said  about  a  suitable  wife  for  John. 

Nurse  Timberlake  looked  at  Anthony.  "You 
would  better  lie  down,"  she  said. 

"Yes — I'm  ready."  He  stood  up,  wavering 
a  little — "Not  very  husky  yet — am  I?" 

She  placed  a  hand  on  his  shoulder.  "You'll 
do — You're  much  better  than  yesterday."  She 
drew  the  coverlet  over  him  and  made  him  com- 
fortable. Then  she  stood  a  minute,  arranging 


A  GOOD  WIFE  FOR  JOHN       191 

the  papers  on  the  table.  Anthony  had  been 
looking  them  over,  and  they  were  scattered  about 
among  the  glasses  and  bottles. 

The  nurse  gathered  them  into  a  little  pile. 
Suddenly  she  stopped — she  glanced  from  the 
paper  in  her  hand  to  Anthony — and  back  to  the 
slip  of  paper.  But  Anthony's  eyes  were  closed 
— he  had  fallen  asleep — it  was  part  of  the  weak- 
ness from  the  fever.  She  glanced  again  at  the 
paper  and  put  it  with  the  others,  slipping  an 
elastic  band  about  them  and  putting  them  in  the 
table  drawer  by  the  bed. 

When  she  returned  to  the  sitting-room,  Mother 
was  in  her  chair  by  the  window  sewing. 

Nurse  Timberlake  crossed  over  to  the  window 
and  stood  looking  at  the  clear-lighted  sky.  "Do 
you  know  a  Lord  Raleigh1?"  she  asked  carelessly. 

Mother's  head  inclined  and  she  looked  over 
the  tops  of  her  glasses.  "Anthony  knows 
him — "  she  said.  "I  never  felt  just  sure  about 
his  being  a  Lord,"  she  added  dryly. 

Nurse  Timberlake  smiled.  "Yes — he's  a 
Lord.  I  saw  the  name  on  a  slip  of  paper  in 


192         THE  TASTE  OF  APPLES 

there — that  was  why  I  asked."  She  turned  back 
again  to  the  window. 

"Anthony's  been  to  see  him,  two  or  three 
times,"  said  Mother — "before  he  was  taken 
sick.  He  was  meaning  to  take  me.  But  I  kind 
of  put  it  off.  It  never  seemed  just  right  to  run 
in  any  time  to  see  a  Lord — and  I  kept  putting  it 
off.  ...  I  thought  I'd  get  a  new  bonnet, 
maybe.  I  don't  suppose  I  shall  see  him  now — 
not  unless  John  wants  to  go.  You  know  my 
son  is  coming — *?"  She  looked  at  her  again  over 
the  glasses — shrewdly. 

And  the  nurse  smiled  a  little.  Mrs.  Wickham 
had  said  her  son  was  coming — every  afternoon 
for  five  weeks. 


XXIV 

THE    QUESTION     OF    A     BONNET 

THE  next  morning  a  letter  came  for  Anthony, 
It  was  signed  "Raleigh,"  and  it  enquired  tersely 
where  he  was  keeping  himself 

"You  answer  it  for  him,  won't  you,  Nurse — 
just  tell  him  Anthony's  been  sick,  and  I've  been 
busy " 

So  Nurse  Timberlake  wrote  a  little  note  to 
Lord  Raleigh,  saying  that  Mr.  Wickham  had 
been  ill,  but  was  now  recovering  favourably; 
he  hoped  to  see  Lord  Raleigh  before  leaving 
London.  She  signed  it  "Mary  Wickham," 
and,  after  a  moment,  "per  A.  T." — and  sealed 
it,  with  a  little  smile  on  her  lips. 

His  Lordship,  when  he  received  the  note, 
looked  at  the  address  and  ordered  his  car  and, 
after  one  or  two  errands  in  the  city,  drew  up  in 

Middle  Temple  Lane  at  the  foot  of  the  Plowden 

193 


194         THE  TASTE  OF  APPLES 

Buildings.  At  the  third  flight  he  paused  for 
breath,  and  arrived  at  the  top  a  little  spent. 

Mother  opened  the  door.  She  looked  at  him, 
and  put  her  hand  to  her  head — with  some  vague 
idea  of  a  best  bonnet — and  held  it  out,  smiling 
from  her  round  face.  "You  must  be — the 
Lord,"  she  said. 

He  smiled  a  little  and  took  the  hand,  gal- 
lantly. "How  is  Mr.  Wickham?' 

"Come  right  in,"  said  Mother.  She  opened 
the  door  wide,  and  he  stepped  in  and  stopped, 
looking  at  a  figure  in  nurse's  cap  and  apron,  that 
stood  by  the  window. 

She  came  forward,  smiling,  and  held  out  a 
hand.  "How  are  you,  Cousin  Thurlow*?"  she 
said. 

"How  de'  do,  Allie?  Where'd  you  light 
from?' 

"I've  been  nursing  Mr.  Wickham." 

"Good  idea! — you  couldn't  do  better.  How 
is  he4?" 

She  ushered  him  into  Anthony's  room  and  left 
them  .  .  .  little  laughs  came  out  of  the  half- 


A  BONNET  195 

open  door,  and  scraps  of  talk,  and  long,  mur- 
muring words,  and  laughs  again.  She  came  and 
stood  in  the  door  at  last. 

"Time  for  Mr.  Wickham  to  rest,"  she  an- 
nounced. 

His  Lordship  got  to  his  feet — "Well,  I'm 
driven  out.  Remember  you're  coming  to  my 
place — as  soon  as  you  can  stir."  He  came  out 
into  the  sitting-room,  smiling.  "We'll  make  him 
well  at  Thurlow.  Best  air  in  England.  I'm 
going  up  next  week  myself — "  he  paused. 
"How  soon  can  he  be  moved'?" 

"Ten  days — perhaps." 

"That's  right.  You'll  come,  too,  won't 
you?" 

"As  a  nurse*?"  she  took  his  hand,  smiling. 

"Anyway  you  like."  He  bowed  himself  over 
the  hand  and  over  Mother's — and  was  gone. 

Mother  blinked  a  little.  "I  don't  feel  as  if  I 
could  go,"  she  said  pathetically.  "I'd  rather 
stay  right  here — " 

"Mr.  Wickham  can't  go  alone,"  said  Nurse 
Timberlake. 


196         THE  TASTE  OF  APPLES 

"No — You  might  go  with  him — ?" 

"I'm  thinking  of  it,"  said  Nurse.  "I'd  rather 
like  to  go — Thurlow  is  my  old  home,"  she  added 
after  a  little  pause. 

Mother  beamed  on  her.  "You  know  the 
neighbourhood  then,  don't  you1?" 

The  nurse  smiled.  "Yes,  I  know  the  village. 
I  know  the  Castle  too — quite  well." 

Mother  gave  a  little  wail — "He  didn't  tell 
me  it  was  a  castle — !  I  can't  go — if  it's  a 
castle!" 

The  nurse  reassured  her.  "It's  not  so  differ- 
ent from  any  other  house — except,  of  course,  that 
it's  old — part  of  it  dates  back  four  hundred 
years  or  so." 

"I  thought  castles  had  towers  and  top-pieces 
and  moats,  and  things?"  said  Mother. 

"Yes — there  are  towers.  But  modern  houses 
have  towers,  you  know." 

"So  they  do,"  assented  Mother.  "I  never 
liked  towers — "  she  added  after  a  moment. 
"And  the  moats  must  be  damp — dreadful  damp. 


A  BONNET  197 

I  don't  believe  Anthony  will  like  it — Where  do 
you  get  your  bonnets'?" 

"My  bonnets — ?"  the  nurse  started  a  little. 
"Oh— at  Selfridge's." 

"I'll  see  what  I  can  do  to-morrow,"  said 
Mother. 


XXV 

WALLACE    SELECTS    IT 

WALLACE  offered  to  go  with  her.  Nurse  Tim- 
berlake  could  not  leave  Anthony,  and  Mother 
must  not  be  trusted  alone  among  the  pitfalls 
and  snares  of  Oxford  Street. 

So  Wallace  accompanied  her.  He  escorted 
her  down  aisles  of  gloves  and  veilings  and  cos- 
metics and  underwear,  suits  and  coats  and  dra- 
peries, and  to  the  millinery  department  and  a 
smart  young  woman  clerk.  Mother  retreated 
into  her  shell;  and  Wallace  and  the  ladylike 
clerk  decided  between  them  what  she  should 
wear.  It  seemed  difficult,  at  first,  among  the 
wheels  of  fashion,  to  find  anything  that  would 
do  to  halo  a  small,  round,  wrinkled  face — but, 
at  last,  from  the  back  of  a  bottom  drawer,  a  little 
straw  structure  was  produced  and  placed  on 
Mother's  head;  the  clerk  stood  back  to  survey  it 
with  lifted  eyebrows,  one  hand  resting  on  her 

198 


WALLACE  SELECTS  IT  199 

hip.  Wallace  walked  around  it,  and  gave  ad- 
vice, and  paid  for  it  and  took  Mother  away. 

"Do  you  think  it's  fancy  enough  for  a  castle, 
Wally*?"  she  asked  as  the  lift  descended  slowly 
to  the  ground. 

"Quite  fancy  enough,"  said  Wallace  decidedly. 
"You  won't  wear  it  all  the  time,  you  know — " 
He  paused,  looking  at  her.  "You  ought  to  have 
a  cap!"  he  said. 

"Wallace !"  She  put  a  distressed  hand  to  her 
head.  "I'm  not  old  enough — for  a  cap!"  She 
looked  at  him  anxiously.  "You  don't  mean  I'm 
old  enough — for  a  cap — do  you*?" 

"Any  age  is  old  enough,  now,"  said  Wallace. 
"Everybody  wears  'em — I  think  you'd  be  stun- 
ning in  a  cap — Come  on,  and  try  one  on!"  So 
they  descended  to  the  cap  department,  and 
Mother  sat  in  front  of  a  long  mirror,  and  Wal- 
lace fitted  caps  to  the  meek  roundness  of  her  face. 

"There!"  he  stood  back  and  looked  at  it. 
"You  couldn't  be  better!  Look  at  yourself." 

She  took  the  hand  mirror  and  turned  her  head 
critically,  surveying  the  little  white  affair,  front 


200         THE  TASTE  OF  APPLES 

and  back.  "It  looks  queer,"  she  said.  "But 
it's  becoming!"  She  beamed  on  him. 

"Of  course  it  is — just  the  thing  for  you! 
You'd  better  keep  it."  He  gave  the  young 
woman  a  coin  and  received  the  cap  in  a  neat 
box. 

Mother's  eye  rested  on  it  contentedly.  "I 
shall  like  it  to  wear  in  the  Castle,"  she  said.  "It 
doesn't  seem  just  right,  somehow,  to  wear  your 
own  hair — in  a  castle." 

"That's  what  they  used  to  think,"  said  Wal- 
lace. "I  suppose  that's  why  they  got  to  wear- 
ing wigs  and  headdresses  and  things — to  live  up 
to  castles." 

"I  know  how  they  felt,"  said  Mother. 

When  they  reached  home,  she  donned  the  cap 
at  once.  "I  want  to  get  used  to  it  before  we  go 
to  the  Castle,"  she  said.  "I  have  to  wear  my 
things  quite  a  spell — before  I  get  used  to  'em.  I 
never  feel  as  if  they  were  my  things — the  first 
week  or  so." 

There  could  be  no  doubt  that  the  cap  exercised 
a  subtle  influence  on  Mother's  thoughts.  She 


WALLACE  SELECTS  IT          201 

no  longer  protested  against  going  with  Anthony, 
and  Nurse  Timberlake  more  than  once  suspected 
her  of  little  budding  desires  to  display  the  cap 
in  lordly  halls. 

"Caps  help  you  to  keep  up,"  explained 
Mother.  "You  know  you  look  good,  no  matter 
how  you  feel  inside!" 

"It's  the  same  with  shoes,"  said  Anthony — 
"sometimes  when  I've  made  a  pair  for  a  mean 
man — a  real  mean  one — I've  thought  I  ought  to 
take  extra  pains  with  'em — so  he  could  walk 
better.  ...  I  used  to  think  sometimes  it  made 
a  difference  with  Jo'  Haskell,"  he  mused. 

"It'd  take  more  than  one  pair  of  shoes  to  make 
a  man  of  Jo'  Haskell !"  said  Mother.  "Maybe 
it  helped,"  she  added  kindly.  The  cap  seemed 
to  have  smoothed  little  asperities  of  judgment 
— much  as  it  softened  the  lines  of  the  wrinkled 
face. 

"I  wish  you  was  going  Wally,"  she  announced 
the  next  day. 

Wallace  glanced  across  at  the  open  door. 
Nurse  Timberlake  was  in  the  next  room  with  An- 


202         THE  TASTE  OF  APPLES 

thony.  "I  wish  I  were,"  he  said  softly.  "It 
will  be  mighty  lonesome  with  all  of  you  gone, 
you  know." 

Mother  looked  at  him  pityingly.  "Of  course 
it  will  be!  I  don't  know  why  I  didn't  think  of 
it  before.  .  .  .  I've  'most  a  good  mind  to  stay 
now " 

"And  waste  your  cap*?"  said  Wallace. 

"Of  course  I'll  have  to  go — "  said  Mother 
hastily — "now  I've  said  I  would.  But  it  don't 
seem  right  leaving  you  alone." 

"John  will  be  along  pretty  soon,"  said  Wal- 
lace. "He'll  take  your  rooms — won't  he*?  So 
I  shall  be  running  in  here  just  the  same." 

Mother  looked  a  little  guilty. 

"John's  coming  to  the  Castle,"  she  said. 
"The  Lord  asked  him." 

"He  did!"  said  Wallace.  "I  thought  John 
had  business  to  attend  to,  and  by  the  time  he'd 
finished  that,  you  would  all  be  coming  back." 

"He's  going  to  take  a  rest  first,"  said  Mother, 
beaming.  "It  was  my  idea — I  told  the  nurse  I 
thought  he  ought  to — and  she  told  the  Lord, 


WALLACE  SELECTS  IT          203 

and  he  asked  him.     It  will  be  a  real  good  chance 
to — visit." 

"How  long  will  Nurse  Timberlake  stay?" 
asked  Wallace. 


XXVI 

THURLOW    CASTLE 

THERE  were  "towers  and  top-pieces  and  moats 
and  things" — hundreds  of  little  spirelike  points 
on  the  turrets  and  four  great  towers  springing 
from  the  ground.  It  was  not  a  large  castle,  but 
it  had  all  the  qualities  of  the  old-time  castle — in- 
side and  out — except  that  it  was  open  to  sunshine 
and  the  world;  little  slits  of  windows,  made  for 
sending  arrows  down  upon  an  approaching  foe, 
had  been  deepened  and  broadened;  and  the  sun 
poured  in,  through  four-foot  thickness,  into  the 
great  rooms;  outside,  the  moat  had  been  drained 
and  wall-flowers  and  roses  grew  there,  and  for- 
get-me-nots and  arabis  and  feathery-plumed 
asters  reaching  against  the  walls. 

Mother  walked  around  the  moat  twice  a  day 
— once  with  Anthony  leaning  on  her  stout  arm, 
and  once  with  the  Lord.  She  had  become  quite 

well  acquainted  with  Lord  Raleigh;  she  gave 

204 


THURLOW  CASTLE  205 

him  advice  about  rheumatism  and  told  him  what 
John  did  when  he  was  a  baby.  The  white  cap 
reached  barely  to  his  Lordship's  shoulder,  and 
the  stately  head  had  to  bend  a  little. 

Anthony,  looking  down  from  his  window, 
smiled  to  see  them;  he  could  feel  Mother's  soul 
standing  tip-toe,  and  Lord  Raleigh's  reaching  to 
it,  trying  courteously  to  understand  this  brusque, 
rushing  little  woman  in  her  cap.  Anthony  un- 
derstood and  loved  them  both.  .  .  .  He  had 
been  resting  since  he  came,  resting  in  the  easy 
chair  in  the  window  and  in  the  canopied  bed  at 
night — but  resting,  most  of  all,  in  the  Castle,  its 
thick  walls  and  deep-freighted  past.  Roots 
that  all  his  life  had  lain  too  close  to  the  surface, 
struck  deep  in  the  subtle,  invisible  soil  and  nour- 
ished him.  Sometimes,  lying  in  the  great  bed  at 
night,  with  the  firelight  flickering  on  the  tapes- 
tries on  the  wall,  he  wondered  how  life  would 
have  looked  if  he  had  been  born  in  the  canopied 
bed — instead  of  in  the  little  ten-by-twelve  room 
in  the  New  England  country  parsonage.  .  .  . 
He  could  not  fancy,  somehow,  that  he  should 


206         THE  TASTE  OF  APPLES 

have  felt  very  different.  It  would  have  been 
the  same  Anthony  Wickham,  loving  his  friends, 
shrinking  if  he  saw  a  dog  struck  in  the  street — 
men  are  not  different.  It  would  have  been 
pleasant,  lying,  looking  at  the  firelight  on  thick 
walls,  to  know  that  one's  ancestors  had  built 
them — and  that  the  armour  in  the  great  hall  be- 
low had  been  theirs,  and  the  pictures  and  tapes- 
tries. .  .  .  Anthony  reached  out  a  thin  hand 
and  stroked  the  colours  beside  him.  It  would 
have  been  pleasant  to  think  that  one's  great- 
great-great-grandmother  had  wrought  that 
monstrous  tropical  bird  over  there  on  the  wall 
and  had  fashioned  the  colours,  so  steadfast  and 
clear  and  soft  and  full  of  gentle  thoughts.  .  .  . 
He  had  lain  looking  at  them  many  nights,  in  the 
firelight,  watching  by  day  from  his  chair  by  the 
window — the  colours  seemed  to  have  become  a 
part  of  him.  .  .  .  He  drifted  into  the  past — 
far  back  where  the  colours  shaped  themselves  and 
grew  under  light,  thin  fingers.  Hand-work — 
all  the  Castle — from  the  turrets  to  the  low- 
groined  arches  in  the  lowest  hall — made  be- 


THURLOW  CASTLE  207 

cause  some  one  loved  it.  And  suddenly  Anthony 
saw  against  the  western  sky  of  New  York  steel- 
ribbed  frames  thrusting  themselves  up — and 
heard  the  clang  of  steel  strike  on  steel — build- 
ing to  the  sky  for  a  young  gigantic  race.  The 
hand  stroking  the  tapestry  seemed  very  worn 
and  thin.  .  .  .  But  something  was  in  it — 
of  that  other  race  across  the  sea — the  gods 
that  were  building  to  their  own  downfall — that 
the  greater  ones  may  come — children  of  men  once 
more.  .  .  .  And  the  streets  of  the  city  shall  be 
full  of  boys  and  girls,  playing  in  the  streets 
thereof.  .  .  .  Anthony  dozed  in  his  chair  in 
the  wide  window  and  waked,  and  down  belowr 
along  the  terrace-moat,  the  two  figures  walked — 
the  little  flying  white  cap,  and  the  stately,  cour- 
teous figure  bending  to  it. 

As  Anthony  recovered  strength  he  became  con- 
scious that  something  had  happened  to  him — out 
of  the  roar  of  London  streets  or  the  thickness  of 
the  castle  walls  or  the  cleansing  touch  of  the 
fever,  something  had  come  .  .  .  thoughts  that 
on  the  shoemaker's  bench  had  only  moved  before 


2o8         THE  TASTE  OF  APPLES 

him  vaguely,  grew  clear;  lying  in  the  great  chair 
out  on  the  terrace,  he  watched  them  shape  them- 
selves— his  mind  played  with  them  and  rose  and 
travelled  a  little — out  to  the  world  ...  he 
watched  the  great  clouds  float  over  the  castle 
and  the  sunshine  playing  on  vines  that  climbed 
the  trellises  and  on  the  little  blue  and  white 
flowers  along  the  edge  of  the  walks — he  floated 
with  the  clouds  and  played,  as  the  sunshine 
played,  upon  the  trellises  and  the  blue  and  white 
flowers.  .  .  .  But  when  he  tried  to  put  his 
thoughts  into  words  they  would  not  always  come 
— out  of  the  clouds  and  the  little  flowers  along 
the  edge  of  the  path. 

Mother  watched  him  anxiously — she  waylaid 
Lord  Raleigh  in  the  garden — "I'm  bothered 
about  Anthony!" 

His  Lordship  stopped  in  the  rose-path — "I 
thought  he  was  doing  very  well — *?"  he  said 
gravely. 

"He's  doing  all  right,"  said  Mother — "but  he 
talks  queer.  ...  I  can't  understand — half  the 
time — what  he  means !" 


THURLOW  CASTLE  209 

"That's  what  makes  him  interesting,  isn't 
it — !"  said  Lord  Raleigh. 

"It  doesn't  interest  me — not  to  understand  a 
single  word,  hardly,  sometimes.  .  .  .  He's 
talking  this  morning  about  hippopotamuses  and 
flying  machines."  She  looked  at  him  sternly 
over  her  glasses. 

His  Lordship  laughed  out.  "I  must  go  and 
hear  him,"  he  said. 

Mother  stood  looking  after  the  stately  back — 
the  wrinkles  in  her  face  gathered  themselves  in 
little  knots  and  blinked.  ...  It  was  all  very 
well  to  be  a  Lord  and  laugh 

His  Lordship  turned  and  saw  her,  and  came 
back.  "You  must  not  be  anxious."  He  reached 
out  a  hand  to  her.  "I  did  not  understand  that 
you  were  really  worried — "  his  tone  was  full  of 
sympathy — even  with  the  little  laugh  under- 
neath it — and  Mother's  eyes  winked  hard. 

"I  don't  mind  his  being  queer,"  she  said. 
"He's  always  been  queer,  more  or  less — but  he's 
never  been  so  happy  about  being  queer,  before. 
It's  kind  of — of — idiotic!" 


210         THE  TASTE  OF  APPLES 

She  looked  at  him  appealingly. 

But  he  only  laughed  out  again  and  patted  her 
hand.  "Don't  worry  about  your  husband — He 
has  more  sense  with  half  his  wits  than  I  have 
with  all  mine!" 

"Yes — I  know  that!"  said  Mother.  But  she 
said  it  only  to  the  roses  and  the  sun-dial  sleeping 
in  the  light.  His  Lordship  was  gone  al- 
ready, half-way  down  the  path  that  led  to  the 
terrace. 

He  found  Anthony  watching  a  little  black- 
and-red  lady-bug  crawling  on  his  hand.  An- 
thony nodded  to  the  hand — "She's  taking  quite 
a  journey,"  he  said — "under  her  red  wings!" 

"Yes."  The  man  sat  down  in  the  chair  op- 
posite and  they  watched  the  lady-bug  take  her 
airing  along  the  narrow,  blue-veined  path — that 
led  to  nowhere.  When  she  came  to  the  knuckle 
she  paused,  sending  out  feelers,  and  waited  a 
minute,  gathering  herself,  and  lifted  her  wings 
and  flew  away.  .  .  .  Anthony  watched  her. 
.  .  .  "I've  been  thinking  about  locomotion," 
he  said. 


THURLOW  CASTLE  211 

Lord  Raleigh  smiled — "And  flying  machines,  I 
suppose?" 

"Yes — machines  of  every  kind — they've 
bothered  me — a  long  time.  ...  I  don't  really 
like  them — you  know !"  He  looked  at  him  with 
the  little  whimsical  smile  that  seemed  a  part  of 
his  face — like  the  nose,  or  the  near-sighted 
glasses. 

"Of  course  you  don't  like  machines — nobody 
likes  them — that  has  any  sense — "  said  the  Lord. 

"I'd  like  to  think  that,"  said  Anthony.  "I 
used  to  believe  it — half-way — when  I  was  mak- 
ing shoes.  You  see,  I  knew  I  could  make  a  bet- 
ter pair  of  shoes  than  a  machine  could  make — a 
pair  that  would  feel  better — wear  better  .  .  . 
but  this  morning  I  see  I'm  wrong  about  it " 

The  other  did  not  speak — he  only  watched  the 
shoemaker  with  curious,  half-amused,  affection- 
ate eyes. 

"I  got  to  thinking  about  it  looking  at  your 
castle — and  wondering  why  we  can't  make  any- 
thing like  it  now.  .  .  .  Yes — I  know — we  do 
make  houses  bigger  than  your  castle — "  An- 


212         THE  TASTE  OF  APPLES 

thony's  hand  moved  a  little  toward  it  and  loved 
it. 

The  Earl  looked  up  at  the  house  his  ancestors 
had  built.  .  .  .  He  would  not  have  cared  to 
tell  every  one  how  he  felt  about  his  castle  .  .  . 
the  very  bones  of  his  body  were  knit  in  it — and 
the  thoughts  of  his  heart — "It's  alive,  you  know." 
He  said  the  words  softly — half  to  himself. 

Anthony  nodded — "That's  what  it  said  to  me, 
this  morning.  .  .  .  It's  eternal — your  castle. 
Sometimes  I've  felt  I'd  made  a  pair  of  shoes 
that  were  eternal — one  or  two  pair " 

They  sat  silent — the  lady-bug  had  lighted  on 
a  green  leaf  and  crawled  underneath  and  was 
resting  after  her  flight.  .  .  .  "That's  the  way 
I  came  to  see  it,"  said  Anthony.  "I've  been  feel- 
ing it  all  the  time  I've  been  here  in  the  castle. 
Somebody  must  have  loved  it — up  into  the  air 
there " 

They  both  looked  up  to  the  little  spirelike 
turrets  .  .  .  they  sprang  piercingly  against  the 
blue  sky.  .  .  .  "Somebody  must  have  loved  it," 
said  Anthony — "and  all  the  castles — and  the 


THURLOW  CASTLE  213 

cathedrals — everywhere — somebody  loved  'em 
— till  they  grew  that  way!" 

The  Earl  had  shifted  his  position  a  little,  and 
was  staring  before  him. 

"They  make  kind  of  a  body  for  the 
Spirit,"  said  Anthony,  " — all  the  cathedrals 
and  castles  everywhere.  I  seem  to  see  they're  a 
kind  of  body.  And  then  I  got  to  thinking  about 
its  hippopotamus  body.  Mother  wouldn't  let 
me  tell  her  about  that — "  He  smiled  a  little. 
"She  went  to  call  you  about  that  time,  I  think*?" 

"Yes." 

"I  didn't  make  it  very  clear,  I  guess.  ...  I 
was  thinking  how  the  Spirit  must  'a'  loved  'em 
sometime — the  way  it  loved  your  castle — loved 
to  feel  'em  breathe  and  walk  around  and  lie 
down — with  their  queer,  leathery  old  necks. 
It  seems  queer — not  to  throw  'em  away  when 
they're  done  with " 

"I've  thought  about  that — a  hundred  times — " 
said  the  Earl. 

Anthony  nodded.  "I  knew  you  had  thought 
of  it  very  likely;  that's  why  it's  easy  to  talk  to 


214         THE  TASTE  OF  APPLES 

you.  Mother's  never  thought  much  about  it,  I 
guess.  I  always  used  to  be  pegging  away  on  it 
— wondering  about  it — asking  Samuel  what  he 
thought " 

"What  did  he  say?' 

Anthony's  little  smile  crept  about  the  words. 
"He  said  they  were  hippopotamuses — and  that 
was  all  there  was  to  it.  One  day  he  got  a  lit- 
tle pestered  with  me  for  keeping  at  it,  and  he 
said  they  had  just  as  good  a  right  to  be  hippopot- 
amuses as  he  and  I  had  to  be  a  shoemaker  .  .  . 
and  that  set  me  thinking.  I  thought  a  good 
while  on  it.  ...  I  see  it  clearer  now — Every- 
thing that's  living  is  just  the  Spirit,  speaking 
out,  breathing-like.  ...  It  has  to  make  new 
bodies  all  the  while — ships — cathedrals — men 
and  puppies  and  goats — it  can't  find  any  shape 
to  suit — exactly.  It  just  says  all  it  can  in  one 
body  and  then  it  moves  on  ...  but  it  doesn't 
throw  the  old  one  away  ...  it  keeps  it — kind 
of  a  book,  like — for  us  to  read.  .  .  .  And 
that's  the  way  I  got  to  thinking  about  flying 
machines  and  making  shoes  by  machinery,  in- 


THURLOW  CASTLE  215 

stead  of  good  old  hand-made  ones.  .  .  .  The 
Spirit  is  living  in  the  machines  now,  I  guess, 
building  a  kind  of  body  for  itself — not  so  solid 
as  the  earth — but  it's  alive  all  through — saying 
things  all  the  time.  ...  I  just  seemed  to  hear 
all  the  machines  talking  around  the  world  .  .  . 
there's  something  they  are  saying — "  He 
leaned  forward,  "I  must  listen  to  it.  .  .  ." 

The  Earl  got  up  and  walked  away.  He 
came  back  slowly — along  the  rose-path,  under  the 
swaying,  shimmering  vines.  He  paused  by  An- 
thony's chair — and  laid  a  hand,  half -affection- 
ately, on  his  shoulder.  .  .  .  "They're  saying 
we  are  done  with — the  cathedrals  and  the  castle 
and  me — "  He  motioned  toward  the  beautiful 
silent  towers  and  the  little  turrets.  "We're 
done  with,"  he  said  softly 

Anthony  looked  up  to  him  and  smiled  a  lit- 
tle. .  .  .  "Perhaps  you're  a  kind  of  illumi- 
nated books — the  hand-made  kind  you  were 
showing  me  yesterday,  you  know — that  the 
Spirit  has  said  things  in.  .  .  ." 


XXVII 

JOHN    ARRIVES 

THE  owner  of  Thurlow  Castle  might  not  object 
to  figuring  as  a  fine  old  twentieth  century  missal ; 
but  he  did  not,  as  yet,  feel  called  upon  to  admire 
the  machines  that  were  to  replace  him  and  his 
kind.  .  .  .  Machines  were  all  very  well  in  their 
way;  there  were  three  cars  in  the  garage,  all  of 
the  newest  type — the  great  touring  car,  a  model 
limousine  and  the  convenient  little  runabout. 
Lord  Raleigh  used  them  freely  and  they  had 
practically  supplanted  the  stables.  He  believed 
in  using  machines,  and  in  keeping  them  in  their 
proper  place.  Possibly,  at  the  back  of  his 
mind,  there  was  a  little  disturbing  sense  that  he 
might  not  always  be  able  to  keep  them  in  what 

he  considered  their  proper  place 

How  much  of  this  was  in  his  mind  as  he 
greeted  John  Wickham,  it  would  not  be  easy  to 

say.     Mother  and  Nurse  Timberlake  had  gone 

216 


JOHN  ARRIVES  217 

to  the  station  to  meet  him,  and  as  the  car  swept 
up  the  curve  of  the  drive,  the  figure  of  a  man 
seated  by  Mother,  on  the  back  seat,  was  outlined 
with  sharp  distinctness  against  the  old  trees. 
The  motionless  figure  seemed  a  part  of  the  ma- 
chine, strong,  implacable — and  moving  with 
swift,  on-rushing  power. 

Lord  Raleigh  and  Anthony,  sitting  on  the  ter- 
race, watched  the  car  approach,  and  as  it  drew 
up  in  front  of  the  steps,  the  master  of  the  castle 
went  forward  to  meet  it. 

John  Wickham  stepped  out  and  the  two  men 
stood  looking  at  each  other  a  minute  over  their 
clasped  hands;  then  they  stepped  apart — and  the 
ocean  swept  in  between.  .  .  .  For  the  first  time 
the  Lord  of  Thurlow  had  encountered  face  to 
face  the  force  that  would  some  day  supplant  him 
and  his  kind.  He  felt  it,  vaguely,  as  he  turned 
away.  They  would  be  left — he  and  his  castle 
— beautiful  old  missals,  for  this  younger  man  of 
iron  and  steel  to  pore  over  in  his  leisure  hours. 
It  flitted  through  his  mind,  half-humorously, 
as  he  turned  and  led  the  way  to  the  ter- 


218         THE  TASTE  OF  APPLES 

race.  But  when  the  young  man  stooped  to  his 
father  and  kissed  him,  the  other  had  a  sense  of 
something  strong  and  tender — something  beauti- 
ful, that  he  had  missed.  .  .  .  The  young 
American  was  no  longer  a  successful  man  of  busi- 
ness, half-defiant  in  his  attitude  toward  the  owner 
of  the  castle;  there  was  a  kind  of  humbleness 
about  him  and  the  Earl  lingered  a  second  before 
he  turned  away — down  the  rose-path — and  left 
them. 

Mother  fussed  at  chairs,  placing  one  for  Nurse 
Timberlake  and  one  for  John — quite  near  by. 
But  the  Nurse  slipped  away — she  must  go  and 
look  after  Anthony's  egg-nog,  and  presently 
Mother  went  to  take  off  her  bonnet. 

John  had  not  seen  the  cap — she  would  sur- 
prise John!  When  she  returned  she  stood 
meekly  with  folded  hands,  waiting.  He  looked 
up — and  jumped  up — and  laughed. 

"I  say,  Mother!"  He  turned  her  around,  on 
her  pivot,  and  looked  at  her.  "It's  all  right!" 
he  pronounced. 


JOHN  ARRIVES  219 

Mother  smiled  serenely.  "Wally  picked  it 
out,"  she  said. 

"I'm  a  little  jealous  of  Wally,  you  know,  re- 
plied John. 

"Everybody's  jealous  of  Wally,"  said  An- 
thony from  his  chair.  "Mother  can't  stir  with- 
out Wally " 

"I  came  here  without  him,"  said  Mother  tri- 
umphantly. 

"But  you  would  have  liked  him  to  come " 

"Well — he  would  have  enjoyed  it.  ... 
And  he  would  have  been  company  for  me — 
when  you  and  the  Lord  get  to  talking.  They're 
always  talking!"  she  said  with  fine  scorn. 

"But  you  have  Nurse  Timberlake  for  com- 
pany," said  Anthony. 

"Yes-s— I  have  had  her." 

"You  speak  as  if  you  never  would  again." 
said  John,  laughing. 

"I  don't  expect  to  see  so  much  of  her  as  I 
have,"  said  Mother  discreetly. 

Then  Nurse  appeared  with  the  egg-nog  and 


220         THE  TASTE  OF  APPLES 

Mother  took  it  from  her —  "You  can  show 
John  around  the  place  a  little,  before  we  have 
tea,"  she  said.  'Til  feed  Father  this—" 
And  her  delighted  eyes  followed  them  as  they 
walked  away.  There  was  something  of  the 
same  quick  decisiveness  in  the  two  figures. 

"They  look  nice  together,  don't  they1?"  said 
Mother 

Anthony  smiled  a  little.  "You  take  match- 
making hard,  Mother — I  shouldn't  want  you  to 
marry  me  off." 

"You're  married  already — to  me!"  said 
Mother.  "They  won't  need  much  helping — " 
she  nodded  toward  the  receding  figures.  Then 
she  looked  again.  "The  Lord's  with  them!" 
she  said.  "Here — drink  this.  .  .  ." 

Anthony  took  it,  smiling.  "He  won't  inter- 
fere with  your  plans — Mother — He's  a  philoso- 
pher." 

"He  don't  like  John !"  said  Mother  promptly. 

"How  did  you  find  that  out4?" 

"I  saw  it — the  first  thing — when  they  shook 
hands.  They  acted  real  foolish — both  of 


JOHN  ARRIVES  221 

them!  .  .  .  There!  they're  coming  back! — 
Well — it's  just  as  well,  they  couldn't  say  much 
with  him  around — he  always  does  the  talk- 
ing " 

"Why,  Mother!" 

"Well — what  did  he  want  to  go  walking  off 
in  that  direction  for — when  he  had  the  whole 
grounds  to  walk  in — hundreds  of  acres  of 
ground !" 

But  when  Lord  Raleigh  approached,  with  the 
destined  pair,  Mother  beamed  upon  him,  and 
upon  them.  She  had  the  faith  of  a  child  that 
things  would  come  right — the  kind  of  faith  that 
sometimes  makes  them  come  right,  in  spite  of 
everything  that  hinders. 

It  did  not  need  a  great  deal  of  faith  to  see,  as 
the  days  went  by,  that  John  and  Nurse  Timber- 
lake  were  good  friends.  They  had  a  hundred 
likes  and  dislikes  in  common.  "They  don't 
either  of  them  eat  tripe!"  announced  Mother 
triumphantly. 

"Are  you  going  to  marry  them — on  not  lik- 
ing tripe*?"  asked  Anthony. 


222         THE  TASTE  OF  APPLES 

"You  can  make  all  the  fun  you  want  to,  An- 
thony. You  know  it  makes  a  difference." 

"Yes — it  makes  a  difference,"  assented  An- 
thony. He  could  not  quite  bring  himself  to  tell 
Mother  his  little  suspicion  that  not  even  the  not 
liking  tripe  would  cause  John  and  Nurse  Tim- 
berlake  to  fall  hopelessly  and  irrevocably  in  love. 
And  who  was  he  after  all,  to  pretend  to  under- 
stand the  vagaries  of  love.  ...  It  was  far 
more  likely  that  Mother  with  her  instincts  was 
right. 

So  Mother  laid  her  little  snares  and  watched 
happily  when  the  unsuspecting  pair  walked  into 
them;  and  turned  her  head  circumspectly  not  to 
see  too  much. 

There  were  days  when  she  regarded  herself 
sternly  in  the  light  of  a  wicked  old  matchmaker. 
She  had  been  a  little  troubled  since  she  learned 
that  Nurse  Timberlake  was  not  a  poor  young 
woman,  depending  on  Anthony's  frailties  for 
support. 

The  Nurse  had  told  her  one  evening  at  dusk, 
standing  in  the  upper  window,  looking  down  on 


JOHN  ARRIVES  223 

the  park.  .  .  .  "It  is  a  dear,  old  place!"  she 
had  said.  "I  get  fonder  of  it  every  year,  I 
think." 

"You've  been  here  a  good  many  times *?"  said 
Mother. 

Nurse  Timberlake  turned  to  her  and  smiled  a 
little.  "I  was  born  here,"  she  said. 

"You  were — born  here"  said  Mother.  "I 
thought — you  were — a  nurse !" 

"A  nurse  has  to  be  born,  you  know,"  she  was 
smiling  again.  "I  think  I  rather  like  it — going 
about  in  cap  and  apron — where  I  used  to  play 
and  do  all  sorts  of  things.  .  .  .  There  were 
only  two  of  us — sister  and  I.  We  played  hide 
and  seek  here  in  the  hall  after  dark — it  was  very 
dark,  I  remember — not  all  lighted  up  as  Cousin 
Thurlow  has  it  now — "  She  moved  her  hand 
at  the  long,  lighted  corridor  beyond. 

"I  am  very  fond  of  the  place.  ...  I  am 
glad  it  will  be  mine,  some  day,"  she  added 
softly. 

Mother  stared — a  little  bewildered.  "Did 
you  say  it  was  yours1?"  she  said. 


224         THE  TASTE  OF  APPLES 

"It  will  be — I  suppose,  some  day.  Polly 
likes  the  town  house  better.  She  will  take  that. 
We  are  next  of  kin — sister  and  I." 

"It  seems  queer,"  said  Mother,  "for  him  to  let 
you  go  out  nursing.  But  I  suppose  it's  Eng- 
lish— *?"  she  sighed  a  little — at  the  difficulty  of 
understanding. 

"Yes — it's  English — perhaps.  But  it's  more 
that  we  wanted  to  do  it.  When  I  went  into 
training,  we  thought  Cousin  Thurlow  would 
marry.  .  .  ." 

"You  mean  if  he  had  married,  you  wouldn't 
'a'  had — "  Mother  groped  at  it. 

"Not  the  Castle  certainly,"  said  the  girl.  "A 
small  allowance,  perhaps — just  enough  to  live 
on.  I  wanted  to  be  independent — and  so  did 
Polly.  She  does  miniatures — " 

"Pictures'?"  said  Mother. 

"Small  ones — yes — portraits.  She  does  beau- 
tiful work." 

"It's  all  topsy-turvy !"  said  Mother.  "And  it 
doesn't  seem  right — either  you  have  a  lot — " 


JOHN  ARRIVES  225 

she  swept  her  hand  toward  the  dusky  park — "or 
else  you  don't  have  anything  at  all !" 

"That's  it!"     The  nurse  smiled  on  her. 

"It's  English,"  said  Mother. 

"Yes — it's  English."  She  spoke  with  a  kind 
of  quiet  pride — and  moved  down  the  hall. 
"Come,  and  see  the  ancestors,"  she  said.  "They 
light  up  best  at  night." 

And  Mother  followed  the  cap  and  apron  down 
the  hall,  groping  at  the  topsy-turvydom  that  up- 
set all  her  ideas.  Suddenly  she  stopped — "You 
will  be  a  Lady!"  she  said  swiftly. 

"What  is  it 7"  Nurse  turned  back  a  little. 
"Oh — no — the  title  lapses  with  Cousin  Thurlow. 
No,  I  shall  be  plain  Miss  Timberlake  always." 

"I  don't  believe  you  will !"  said  Mother 
stoutly. 

But  in  her  heart  she  had  a  little,  sinking  sense 
that  Nurse  Timberlake  might  be  right.  The 
situation  was — English.  She  moved  a  little  less 
happily  on  her  matchmaking  path.  .  .  .  Her 
son  was  good  enough  for  any  girl — good  enough 


226         THE  TASTE  OF  APPLES 

even  for  Miss  Alice  Timberlake,  of  Thurlow; 
but  Miss  Timberlake  would  be  a  rich  woman 
sometime,  and  Mother  could  not  scheme  for  a 
rich  wife  for  John. 

She  had  not  the  comfort  of  knowing  that  long 
before  Nurse  Timberlake  came  into  possession 
of  Thurlow  Castle,  her  son  might  be  able  to  buy 
up  the  castle  and  all  it  contained — two  castles 
— three  if  it  pleased  him.  Castles,  old  masters 
and  tapestries — all  to  be  swept  into  Johnnie's 
capacious  American  apron  if  it  pleased  him. 
But  to  Mother  he  was  only  her  boy — hardly  able 
to  look  after  his  socks  and  certainly  not  to  be 
trusted  to  pick  out  a  wife. 

She  confided  her  troubles  to  Anthony — or  tried 
to.  "It  all  belongs  to  her,  Anthony !"  she  said, 
"to  Nurse  Timberlake " 

"What  belongs — *?"  asked  Anthony.  He  was 
lying  back  in  his  chair,  looking  up  at  the  top  of 
the  Castle  and  the  great  trees  beyond  it.  "What 
is  it  you  say  belongs  to  Nurse  Timberlake?" 
he  said. 

"All   of  this — everything!"     Mother  waved 


JOHN  ARRIVES  227 

her  hand — "the  castle  and  the  grounds — she 
owns  everything  really." 

"So  do  I,"  said  Anthony  dreamily. 

Mother  looked  at  him  anxiously.  She  hoped 
it  wasn't  going  to  be  one  of  Anthony's  queer 
mornings — she  needed  some  one  to  confide  in  — 
and  there  was  no  one  like  Anthony — if  only  he 
would  be  sensible. 

"What  I  mean  is — "  said  Mother,  "she  told 
me  last  night — she  will  own  everything  here — 
when  the  Lord  dies.  .  .  .  You  understand  me, 
Anthony?' 

"Yes,  I  understand,  Mother.  ...  I  own  it 
now  in  essence — myself.  It  is  a  wonderful  old 
place  to  own!" 

So  Mother  gave  it  up.  Fate  must  do  what  it 
could.  She  settled  down  to  her  work.  John 
and  Nurse  Timberlake  had  gone  for  a  walk.  A 
great  many  things  could  happen  in  a  walk.  It 
was  when  she  and  Anthony  went  for  a  walk  that 
he  had  spoken.  .  .  .  She  could  remember  how 
blue  the  sky  was,  with  the  great  white  clouds 
sailing  over — there  had  been  a  rain  the  night  be- 


228         THE  TASTE  OF  APPLES 

fore,  and  everything  smelled  sweet!  "Do  you 
remember,  Anthony,  the  walk  we  took  up  by  Dol- 
man's Hill?" 

"Yes — I  remember,"  said  Anthony,  "what 
about  it?" 

"Nothing,"  said  Mother  softly,  "I  only  won- 
dered if  you  remembered " 

Anthony  looked  at  her  and  smiled — just  as 
he  had  smiled  that  day. 

And  John  came  out  to  them  on  the  terrace 
and  said  he  must  get  back  to  town  to-morrow. 
Business  had  come  up  that  he  must  be  there  to 
look  after. 


XXVIII 

ANTHONY'S  THOUGHTS 

THE  shoemaker  and  the  Earl  were  in  the  garden 
together.  John  had  gone  back  to  town. 
Mother  and  Nurse  Timberlake  were  engaged  in 
some  mysterious  rite  of  dressmaking;  they  had 
become  invisible  to  mere  man. 

Anthony  had  been  in  the  garden  all  the  morn- 
ing, walking  about  a  little,  reading  and  think- 
ing. Lord  Raleigh  had  returned  from  his 
drive  around  the  estate  and  had  come  straight 
to  the  terrace;  they  had  sat  ever  since  talking, 
watching  the  clouds  and  the  rooks  overhead  and 
the  great  rooks'  nests  in  the  trees — The  little 
shadows  shifted  themselves  silently  on  the  grass 
and  the  gravel  walk  and  swayed  hurriedly  when 
the  wind  blew  the  branches  about.  .  .  .  They 
had  been  talking  of  a  dozen  things — turning 
them  slowly  about — and  they  sat  silent  in  the 

little    wind    that   came    across    the    garden — it 

229 


230         THE  TASTE  OF  APPLES 

shook  soft  scents  from  the  flowers  and  scattered 
them.  Over  against  the  low  yew  hedge,  a  sin- 
gle pair  of  tulips  held  their  little,  yellow,  shin- 
ing globes  against  the  dark  green  of  the  yew. 
"That  is  a  stray,"  said  the  Earl.  He  looked  at 
the  quaint  stiffness  of  the  hedge  and  the  yellow 
flower  growing  against  it.  ...  "It  is  far  more 
beautiful  than  anything  that  Hodges  planted — " 
he  said,  "it  seems  to  belong  there,  by  the  hedge, 
growing  that  way,  doesn't  it?" 

Anthony's  eyes  rested  on  it.  "I  think  they 
found  each  other  out,"  he  said. 

"You  do—?"  The  Earl  laughed  quietly. 
"The  hedge  said  to  the  tulip,  I  suppose,  'Come 
over  here,  Miss  Flower,  I  shall  be  very  becoming 
to  you!'  ...  Or  perhaps  you  think  the  tulip 
moved  the  hedge  a  rod  or  two — ?" 

Anthony  smiled.  .  .  .  "You  say  it  because 
you  think  it  is  ridiculous,"  he  said  quietly. 

"I  did  the  best  for  them  I  could — said  the  best 
thing  I  could,"  assented  the  Earl. 

"I  think  it  may  be  true,"  said  the  shoemaker. 

The   other's   quizzical   smile   rested   on   him. 


ANTHONY'S  THOUGHTS        231 

"And  perhaps  you  think  you  called  mt. — on 
Blackfriars  Bridge!" 

"Something  like  that,"  said  Anthony.  "The 
right  flowers  grow  together,  if  we  let  them, 
and  trees  and  bushes — they  don't  make  mistakes, 
do  they " 

"There  is  a  kind  of  choice — "  said  the  Earl 
thoughtfully.  "But  you're  not  going  to  make 
me  believe  that  the  whole  universe  goes  on 
screaming  out  and  calling — tumbling  over  itself, 
to  get  to  the  right  place — like  the  taxis  in  the 
Strand." 

"No — not  exactly "  said  Anthony  smil- 
ing, "but  I  was  reading  while  you  were  away 
this  morning — "  He  touched  the  book  on  the 
chair  beside  him.  "I  was  reading  how  every- 
thing solid — every  bit  of  marble  and  flesh  and 
bone  and  rock — is  all  whirling  round  inside; 
and  the  harder  it  seems  to  be — the  faster  it 
whirls." 

"Yes — I  know.  .  .  .  They  used  to  say  it 
took  faith  to  believe  in  religion.  Nowadays  it 
takes  more  faith  to  believe  the  scientists — !" 


232         THE  TASTE  OF  APPLES 

He  looked  at  Anthony  with  the  little  twinkling 
smile.  "You  believe  that,  I  suppose — about  the 
things  whirling  around  inside?" 

"Yes— don't  you?" 

"Yes.  .  .  .  What  I  want  to  know  is — 
where  it's  all  whirling  to?" 

"You'll  be  there  to  see,"  said  Anthony 
quietly. 

"You  think  so—?"  The  Earl  turned  and 
stared  across  at  the  tulips.  "You  think — so?" 
he  said  slowly.  "It  doesn't  seem  quite  likely, 
you  know." 

"No— but  it's  true." 

"You've  had  a  message,  I  suppose — special 
wireless !" 

Anthony  ignored  the  little  gentle  irony  of  the 
words.  "I've  seen  it — yes.  ...  I  remembered 
this  morning  a  yellow  rose-bush  that  used  to 
grow  in  the  door-yard  at  home  when  I  was  a  boy. 
I  hadn't  thought  of  it  for  years.  I  didn't  know 
I  remembered  it — but  all  of  a  sudden  I  saw  it, 
clear  as  light — and  smelled  the  roses  and  saw 
myself  standing  by  it,  with  my  mother — "  He 


ANTHONY'S  THOUGHTS        233 

sat  looking  before  him  as  if  he  saw  it  still  in  a 
kind  of  dream. 

The  other  stirred  a  little.  "It's  pretty — but 
it  doesn't  prove  anything.  .  .  .  You  smelled 
the  roses  over  there — "  His  hand  moved  to- 
ward the  rose-path.  "You  think  of  a  yellow 
rose  and  of  your  Mother — and  you  tell  me  I'm 
immortal.  ...  I  don't  even  know  that  I  want 
to  be,"  he  added  thoughtfully.  "I've  had  my 
life " 

"That's  what  I  thought  about  the  yellow- 
rose,"  said  Anthony.  "It  died  long  ago.  But 
it  was  alive — this  morning — in  me;  and  I  am 
alive  in  Someone.  He  won't  forget — a  thou- 
sand years — He  will  remember,  I  think." 

The  Earl  looked  at  him,  at  the  gentle,  thought- 
ful face  and  thin  hands.  He  got  up  and  walked 
away  a  little,  and  came  back.  "It  doesn't  prove 
anything,"  he  said. 

"Doesn't  it?'  Anthony  smiled.  "Things 
don't  have  to  be  proved — if  you  see  them." 

The  other  had  seated  himself.  "So  you  think 
you  will  live — as  an  experience  of  the  great 


234         THE  TASTE  OF  APPLES 

Soul,  you  will  live  forever — that's  fixed.  .  .  . 
And  it  just  goes  on  and  on — more  men,  more 
roses,  more  experience — world  without  end. 
I  don't  see  it  getting  anywhere Evo- 
lution— yes.  ...  It  stopped  at  men — You'll 
never  get  anything  beyond  men — on  this  earth. 
I'm  not  interested  in  Mars.  Evolution  on  this 
earth  is  done  with." 

"You  got  a  wireless,  I  suppose,  when  it 
stopped*?"  said  Anthony  quietly. 

The  other  looked  at  him  and  smiled.  "I 
haven't  seen  any  great  change — not  since  I  was 
a  boy.  We're  just  about  the  same  as  the 
Pharaohs  were — grim  old  kings  of  dust — just 
about  the  same." 

"They  didn't  whirl  around  inside,"  said  An- 
thony— "the  Pharaohs  didn't." 

"Don't  you  think  so*? — modern  touch,  per- 
haps— whirling — inside  and  out — "  He  stared 
a  minute  and  stopped.  "There  may  be  some- 
thing in  it,"  he  said  softly.  .  .  .  "But  you 
won't  get  beyond  Men !" 

"Perhaps  we  don't  need  to,"  said  Anthony. 


ANTHONY'S  THOUGHTS        235 

"Suppose  men  get  beyond  themselves — Do 
things  they  didn't  know  they  could." 

The  other  was  looking  at  him.  "Such  as — 
flying?"  he  asked. 

Anthony  shook  his  head.  "They've  done 
that.  It  isn't  so  very  different  from  motoring 
— only  in  the  air,  instead  of  on  the  ground. 
It  is  something  different  I  mean " 

"Something  nobody  has  thought  of  yet*?"  sug- 
gested Lord  Raleigh  with  his  little  quizzical 
smile. 

"Yes.  .  .  .  Something  like  this—"  The 
shoemaker  leaned  forward,  speaking  as  if  the 
things  he  spoke  went  whirling  before  him.  .  .  . 
"It's  as  if  we  had  a  great  Power  in  us  that  no 
one  has  touched.  We  don't  know  of  it — any 
more  than  we  knew  that  solid  things  were  whirl- 
ing all  about — but  some  day  some  one  will  find 
it — lay  his  hand  on  it — and  there  will  be  men 
who  can  do  what  they  will — walk  upon  the 
water,  ride  upon  the  wind.  .  .  .  You  will  see 
— you  will  not  need  a  flying  machine  when  you 
can  get  your  hand  on  that  Power.  .  .  ."  The 


236         THE  TASTE  OF  APPLES 

shoemaker's  thin  hand  came  together  suddenly 
in  tight  grip — he  blinked  a  little — and  laughed 
softly.  ...  "I  must  have  been  talking  great 
nonsense,"  he  said. 

"Pretty  bad,"  said  the  other.  He  was  look- 
ing across  at  him  with  keen,  quiet  eyes  that  shone 
a  little.  "Pretty  bad — you're  partly  froth  and 
partly  grit,  Anthony." 

"I'm  glad  Mother  didn't  hear  it,"  said  An- 
thony. "It  bothers  Mother — to  hear  me  talk- 
ing nonsense,  like  that!" 


XXIX 

MOTHER'S  OPINIONS 

"Doss  it  set  all  right  in  the  back?"  asked 
Mother  anxiously. 

She  stood  in  front  of  the  long  mirror  in  the 
dressing-room,  craning  her  neck  a  little  to  get  a 
good  view  of  the  plump  back.  Nurse  Timber- 
lake,  on  a  chair  beside  her,  turned  her  slowly 
about,  looking  at  her  critically  and  adjusting 
folds.  The  maid  on  the  floor,  with  a  mouthful 
of  pins,  pinned  skilfully  and  moved  along  on  her 
knees,  looking  up  now  and  then  at  the  result  and 
pinning  on. 

Nurse  Timberlake  nodded  approval.  "It's 
going  to  look  just  right!"  she  said. 

Mother  drew  a  sigh  of  relief.  "I've  always 
wanted  a  one-piece  dress — ever  since  they  came 
in.  The  dressmaker  at  home  said  I  didn't  have 
the  figure  for  it." 

".Your  figure's  all  right,"  said  Nurse  Timber- 
237 


238         THE  TASTE  OF  APPLES 

lake.  "Pin  it  up  a  little  higher  on  this  side, 
Amelia.  Yes,  there — that's  it,"  she  put  her 
head  back  and  surveyed  it. 

"I've  always  worn  a  basque,"  said  Mother — 
she  was  still  craning  a  little. 

Nurse  Timberlake  made  no  reply.  It  was 
Mother's  "basque"  that  had  precipitated  the  pins 
and  folds — Mother's  basque  was  a  short  gar- 
ment— very  wide  in  the  shoulders,  tight  in  the 
waist,  and  having  lines  that  tried  the  figure. 

Mother  looked  again  at  her  back  in  the  mir- 
ror, and  smoothed  the  front  a  little.  "It's  going 
to  look  real  good,  I  guess — I  wish  Wally  could 
see  it!" 

"He  will  see  it — won't  he — when  we  go 
back — *?"  The  nurse  spoke  absently;  she  was 
still  shifting  the  folds  a  little — "Put  a  pin  here, 
Amelia.  Yes — that's  better.  .  .  .  See  how 
you  like  that,  Mrs.  Wickham " 

Mother  walked  slowly  back  and  forth  in  front 
of  the  mirror  and  looked  at  herself;  the  maid, 
on  her  knees,  wore  an  air  of  distrustful  approval 
and  Nurse  Timberlake  studied  the  effect — "A 


MOTHER'S  OPINIONS  239 

little  more  on  this  side,  Amelia — don't  you  think 
so — yes." 

The  maid  bent  again  to  her  pins.  She  had 
been  assigned  to  Mother  the  day  they  arrived, 
but  this  was  the  first  thing  she  had  been  allowed 
to  do.  Mother  had  stoutly  resisted  all  offers  to 
unpack  trunks,  or  lay  out  her  clothes  for  dinner 
or  help  her  dress.  "I'm  used  to  doing  for  my- 
self," she  said.  "It  bothers  me  to  have  anybody 
around."  So  the  maid  had  withdrawn  in  re- 
spectful, disapproving  silence. 

It  was  Nurse  Timberlake's  idea,  that  she 
could  be  utilised  for  dressmaking.  "Why  not 
let  her  make  you  a  new  frock1?"  she  had  said. 
"She  is  really  very  good  at  that  sort  of  thing. 
You  could  send  into  town  for  some  stuff." 

"I've  got  three  dresses  now — besides  my  every- 
day one,"  said  Mother.  "I  don't  know  what  I 
should  do  with  any  more " 

"She  might  alter  these  a  little  then,"  said 
Nurse  Timberlake.  "Fashions  change  so,  you 
know " 

"Sleeves'?"  asked  Mother  anxiously. 


240         THE  TASTE  OF  APPLES 

"Yes— and  backs." 

"Well — I  don't  mind  her  trying.  You  don't 
think  she  would  spoil  them?" 

"She's  very  good,"  said  Nurse  discreetly. 
"Just  let  her  try  one." 

So  Mother  stood  obediently  in  front  of  the 
mirror,  and  turned  when  she  was  told  to,  and 
walked  off  a  little  way,  and  came  back,  and  stood 
— "a  little  more  to  the  right" — and  the  maid  and 
Nurse  Timberlake  evolved  the  work  of  art. 

Somewhere  in  the  course  of  events  a  bolt  of 
soft,  black,  lacy  stuff  had  made  its  appearance. 
"Some  that  I  had  before  I  went  into  training," 
said  Nurse.  "I  shouldn't  ever  wear  it  now. 
We  need  something  of  the  sort — for  these  lines 
here."  She  threw  a  fold  of  it  over  Mother's 
shoulder  and  draped  it  at  the  back. 

"Just  what  it  needed,"  said  Amelia  on  her 
knees,  pinning  swiftly  and  looking  up. 

"It  makes  a  difference,  doesn't  it — here  take 
the  rest  of  it — that  way — yes — that's  right!" 

The  two  artists  stood  back  to  survey  the  re- 
sult. 


MOTHER'S  OPINIONS  241 

"You  don't  think  it  makes  me  look  too 
squatty,  do  you?"  said  Mother. 

"Not  a  bit.  Here — put  on  your  cap — there 
now  look  at  yourself!" 

Mother  looked  and  smiled,  in  soft,  little 
wrinkles,  and  turned  herself.  "I  do  wish  Wal- 
lace could  see  it,"  she  said.  "Wallace  has  good 
taste." 

Nurse  Timberlake  smiled  a  little.  "He  wears 
aesthetic  socks,"  she  admitted. 

"They're  always  the  same  colour  as  his  neck- 
ties— did  you  ever  notice?" 

"Yes — I've  noticed.  .  .  .  You  might  take 
that  out  now,  Amelia,  and  hem  the  edge." 

Amelia  gathered  up  a  lacy  wing  and  departed. 

Mother  stood  in  front  of  the  mirror,  still  turn- 
ing; but  she  was  not  looking  at  herself — her  face 
had  grown  thoughtful.  "I  don't  know  as  I 
think  Wally  has  any  better  taste  than  John 
has — "  she  said  slowly. 

Nurse  Timberlake's  face  wrinkled  a  little. 
"Your  son  does  not  care  about  his  clothes — not 
as  Mr.  Tilton  does." 


242         THE  TASTE  OF  APPLES 

"That's  it,"  said  Mother.  "I  was  trying  to 
think  how  it  was — John  never  did  care  .  .  . 
even  as  a  little  boy  he  didn't  seem  to  care  about 
such  things — and  I  had  to  make  him  wash  his 
face  and  hands." 

Nurse  Timberlake's  smile  laughed  out.  "I 
don't  doubt  it!"  She  nodded  to  the  gown — 
"You  might  take  it  off  now,  and  we'll  give  it  to 
Amelia  to  work  en." 

"I  can  hem  this  piece  myself,"  said  Mother, 
gathering  up  a  soft  bit. 

"Yes — well — if  you  like  .  .  .  she's  glad  to 
have  it  to  do  for  you,  you  know." 

"I  like  to  do  it,"  said  Mother.  "I  feel  better 
to  have  something  going  through  my  hands. 
I  feel  foolish — just  to  sit  down  with  'em 
folded." 

"I  thought  we  would  go  out  on  the  terrace. 
Cousin  Thurlow  asked  me  to  read " 

"I  shall  take  it  out  there,"  said  Mother.  "I 
can  listen  and  sew,  too." 

But  when  they  reached  the  terrace  the  chairs 
under  the  tree  were  pushed  about  and  empty. 


MOTHER'S  OPINIONS  243 

In  the  distance  through  the  trees  two  figures 
paced  slowly. 

"They'll  be  back  soon,"  said  Nurse,  "we'll 
wait " 

They  sat  under  the  big  tree,  the  morning  light 
about  them  falling  on  the  garden  and  terrace 
and  on  the  table  littered  with  books  and  papers 
and  the  half-scattered  pouch  of  tobacco  and  short 
briar-wood  pipe.  The  nurse  tidied  the  table  a 
little. 

Mother  watched  her  a  minute.  Then  she  un- 
folded her  work.  "John  likes  pretty  things, 
though — "  she  continued.  "He  likes  them  on 
other  people.  He'll  know  if  it  looks  good — " 
she  held  up  her  work  and  looked  at  it. 

Nurse  Timberlake  sat  down,  leaning  forward 
a  little,  her  hands  swinging  loosely  like  a  young 
boy.  Her  face  had  a  fresh,  quizzical  look.  "I 
can  tell  you  who  has  better  taste  even  than — 
John." 

"Who  is  it*?"  said  Mother  looking  up — 
startled. 

"Mr.  Wickham." 


244         THE  TASTE  OF  APPLES 

"Anthony!"  Mother  let  fall  her  work  and 
gazed  in  the  distance  where  the  two  figures  paced 
behind  the  leafy -branching  trees.  .  .  .  "An- 
thony doesn't  know,  half  the  time,  what  folks 
have  on,"  she  said.  "Or,  anyway,  he  never  says 
anything " 

"I'd  rather  know  what  he  thinks  about  things 
— most  things — than  almost  any  one  I  know — " 
said  Nurse. 

Mother  pricked  her  needle  idly  through  her 
dress.  "We've  never  depended  much  on  An- 
thony, not  for  anything  real  sensible,"  she  said. 

Nurse  smiled.  "You'd  call  clothes  sensible — 
how  they  look — wouldn't  you*?" 

"Oh,  yes — "  said  Mother.  "That  takes  sense 
— of  course." 

"He  could  tell  you,"  said  Nurse,  " — if  he 
looked.  He  doesn't  always  look.  He's  think- 
ing about  other  things." 

"He's  dreadful  absent-minded!"  assented 
Mother. 

"I've  heard  him  and  Cousin  Thurlow  talking 
— about  the  Castle — and  he  said  things  about  it 


MOTHER'S  OPINIONS  245 

that  modern  critics  are  just  beginning  to  find  out 
— which  parts  are  good  and  which  are  bad — he 
seems  to  know  by  instinct — and  he'd  never  seen  a 
castle  before.  Cousin  Thurlow  says  it's  because 
he  looks  at  things  just  the  way  a  child  would — 
and  doesn't  pretend." 

"I've  always  said  he  was  just  like  a  child," 
said  Mother.  "He's  a  dreadful  trial  that  way 
sometimes — he  doesn't  seem  to  use  good  judg- 
ment!" 

"I  am  afraid  he  doesn't."  The  nurse 
laughed  softly.  "You  know  people  are  begin- 
ning to  say  now  that  good  judgment  isn't  worth 
very  much4?" 

Mother  looked  at  her — she  settled  her  glasses 
firmly  on  her  nose.  "I  don't  know  what  I'd  do 
without  it.  How  are  you  going  to  judge  a 
thing  if  you  don't  have  judgment*?"  she  asked 
severely.  She  looked  over  her  glasses. 

"Don't  be  cross  about  it!"  said  Nurse  Timber- 
lake,  laughing.  "I  didn't  invent  it — I  don't 
even  pretend  to  understand  it — altogether.  But 
if  I  could  get  as  near  right  as  Mr.  Wickham  does, 


246         THE  TASTE  OF  APPLES 

I  wouldn't  care  whether  my  judgment  was  good 
or  bad — I'd  trust  my  instinct." 

Mother  said  nothing.  England  was  queer. 
London  was  queer.  Anthony  was  queer.  .  .  . 
But  now,  it  seemed  his  queerness  was  all  right. 
It  was  a  topsy-turvy  world,  everything  in  it  was 
queer.  .  .  .  She  sewed  on,  drawing  little  fine 
black  stitches  through  the  lacy  stuff,  her  mouth 
set  tight. 

When  Anthony  came  up,  she  looked  at  him — 
as  if  she  had  never  seen  him  before.  It  was 
the  same  quaint  Anthony,  with  half-drooping 
shoulders  and  the  little  white  lock  rising  from 
his  forehead — the  same  Anthony  she  had  always 
loved  and  taken  care  of  and  felt  superior  to. 
She  looked  down  at  his  feet,  "Did  you  put  on 
your  thicker  socks  *?" 

"Did  I?"  He  looked  down,  a  little  guiltily. 
His  face  lighted — "I  did  put  them  on — didn't 
I?  I  thought  perhaps  I'd  forgot." 

Mother  looked  again — "You've  got  on  one 
thick  one — and  one  thin  one,"  she  said. 


MOTHER'S  OPINIONS  247 

"So  I  have!"  Anthony  looked  at  them — he 
smiled,  "I'd  better  go  change  'em." 

"It  will  do  if  you  change  one — "  said  Mother 
drily.  Presently  she  looked  up.  "You  saw 
what  he'd  done4?" 

"Yes,"  Nurse  Timberlake  was  smiling. 

"Used  his  instinct  to  put  on  his  socks  with!" 
said  Mother.  "I  think  a  little  judgment 
wouldn't  'a'  hurt — enough  to  put  on  socks  with." 


XXX 

THE    RETURN    TO    THE    TEMPLE 

MOTHER,  in  soft,  lacy,  wing-like  garments, 
ceased  to  walk  solidly  on  both  feet,  and  floated 
plumply  about  the  castle.  Sometimes  Lord 
Raleigh,  seeing  her,  smiled  a  little  to  himself  at 
the  picture — a  gentle,  courtly  smile.  There  was 
something  in  Mother  that  kept  him  amused.  He 
could  not  talk  with  her  as  he  talked  with  An- 
thony ;  but  her  downrightness  interested  and  kept 
him  wondering  a  little.  Through  Mother  he 
was  studying  a  new  type — the  American  woman 
before  the  culture-bacillus  took  possession  of  her. 
She  beamed  on  him — narrow,  keen,  generous — 
perhaps  the  most  essentially  feminine  woman  in 
the  world;  beside  her  the  English  women  whom 
he  knew  seemed  fairly  masculine — they  walked 
with  long,  swinging  step,  free  from  the  hip,  and 
their  processes  were  almost  as  free  and  direct  as 

the  stride.     It  was  not  difficult  to  follow  them — 

248 


RETURN  TO  THE  TEMPLE     249 

one  noted  the  direction  and  swung  into  pace  with 
them  and  arrived,  in  due  time,  at  the  goal — not 
always  in  agreement  with  them — but  always  able 
to  understand  and  answer  back.  If  English 
women  chose  to  smash  windows  up  and  down 
Regent  Street  in  the  holy  cause  of  votes  for 
women,  the  average  Englishman  might  protest 
and  grumble,  but  he  understood;  he  could  re- 
tort by  breaking  into  rooms  and  ragging  them 
thoroughly — throwing  furniture  about,  empty- 
ing bureau  drawers  and  wardrobes  and  strewing 
the  contents  about  the  room;  he  knew  how  the 
suffragette  would  feel  when  she  entered  and  be- 
held the  wreckage;  and  she  knew  that  he  knew 
that  she  knew.  It  was  all  a  great  family  party 
— with  exchange  of  amenities.  You  knew 
where  to  find  a  woman — in  England.  She 
might  differ  with  you,  she  might  oppose  you — 
or  flirt  with  you;  but  she  was  a  comprehensible 
being. 

Not  so  Mother.  She  marched  with  you  on  the 
path  of  logic — looking  up  at  you  with  puzzled, 
meek  eyes,  ready  at  any  time  to  be  convinced  by 


250        THE  TASTE  OF  APPLES 

superior  remarks;  and  then  suddenly,  with  a 
little  bewildered  flourish,  she  had  left  you 
standing — with  your  feet  planted  firmly  on 
facts,  gazing  after  her  as  she  floated  up;  she  cir- 
cled like  an  air-ship — a  balloon — above  your 
astonished  head,  and  took  flight,  coming  down 
in  some  new  place — quite  an  illogical  place, 
perhaps,  but — the  more  you  blinked  and  looked 
— in  exactly  the  spot  she  meant!  Anthony  had 
lived  with  her  forty  years. 

It  might  be,  Lord  Raleigh  fancied,  that  An- 
thony's mind  had  gained  something  from  its 
forty  years  experience  of  this  round,  flitting 
surety  of  flight.  Mother,  he  could  surmise,  had 
not  altered  by  a  hair's  breadth.  But  no  mere 
masculine  mind  could  stand  untouched  by 
Mother's  flights.  Perhaps  the  American  man 
— with  his  keen,  intuitive  business  sense — 
owed  more  than  he  guessed,  to  small  round 
women  in  bonnets — coming  down  in  unexpected 
places.  One  cannot  stand  forever,  staring,  be- 
wildered— he  would  essay  little  flights  of  his 


RETURN  TO  THE  TEMPLE     251 

own,  and  discover,  after  the  first  gasping  breath, 
that  it  "worked." 

Something  like  this  flitted  through  his  Lord- 
ship's mind  as  he  watched  Mother  or  walked 
with  her  on  the  terrace.  She  told  him  her  be- 
wilderments and  laid  difficulties  before  him. 
She  consulted  him  about  Anthony,  and  asked  ad- 
vice, and  looked  up  to  him  meekly — but  always 
with  the  little  impending  sense  of  flight,  that 
kept  things  moving  on.  Sometimes  Nurse  Tim- 
berlake,  watching  them  together,  smiled — they 
were  two  types  that  might  not  have  met  for  a 
thousand  years,  that  could  never  have  met  per- 
haps except  by  Anthony  Wickham  gently  un- 
derstanding them  both. 

About  Anthony  she  had  no  doubts.  If  there 
were  another  Anthony  Wickham  in  the  world 
— young  or  old — she  would  marry  him  to-mor- 
row! But  there  were  no  men  like  Anthony — 
they  were  all  old  and  grown-up — even  the  young 
men  were  old  .  .  .  no,  she  should  never  marry 
— probably  not. 


252         THE  TASTE  OF  APPLES 

They  were  going  back  to  town  next  week. 
Anthony  was  recovered.  The  castle  would  be 
full  of  other  guests — some  of  them  coming  be- 
fore they  left — and  Mother  was  anxious  to  get 
back  to  "John."  .  .  .  Nurse  Timberlake,  walk- 
ing in  the  garden,  picked  a  rose,  as  she  thought 
of  Mother  and  her  John,  and  smiled  at  it.  ... 
They  would  travel  up  to  London  together;  and 
she  would  leave  them  and  go  back  to  her  ragged 
children.  It  had  been  a  long  vacation — first  in 
the  Temple  and  then  here  at  Thurlow.  She 
was  devoted  to  every  stone  of  the  old  place;  she 
looked  up  at  the  little  pointed  turrets,  and  loved 
them.  .  .  .  She  was  free  to  come  back  any 
time — she  knew  that  Cousin  Thurlow  would 
give  her  welcome — but  she  must  go  back  to  work. 
She  had  been  resting  too  long — one  could  not 
call  taking  care  of  Anthony  Wickham  work. 
She  wondered  what  Tony  Wasson  was  doing — 
she  must  try  to  get  the  children  off  for  a  holi- 
day. Perhaps  Cousin  Thurlow  could  tell  her 
of  some  one  on  the  estate — who  could — take 
them.  .  .  .  She  walked  with  bent  head,  think- 


RETURN  TO  THE  TEMPLE      253 

ing  of  her  children — Tony  Wasson's  children — 
the  rose  in  her  fingers  swinging  a  little,  as  she 
walked,  and  her  long,  free  skirts  swishing  against 
the  arabis  in  the  borders  and  waking  sweet 
scents. 

John  met  them  at  the  station — looking  after 
Anthony  with  quiet  care  and  placing  Mother  in 
the  taxi  beside  him,  before  he  turned  to  insist 
that  Nurse  Timberlake  should  drive  with 
them.  .  .  . 

"If  you  cannot  stay  at  the  Temple,  I'll  take 
you  on  to  your  place  later." 

But  she  was  firm.  "I  must  get  back  to  my 
people,"  she  said.  She  motioned  to  a  taxi  and 
it  turned  toward  the  curb.  "Good-bye — I  shall 
come  to  see  you — yes.  Take  good  care  of  him." 
She  nodded  and  was  gone. 

John  replaced  his  hat  and  got  into  the  cab — 

"You  can  go  see  her  to-morrow,"  said 
Mother. 

He  stared  at  her  a  little,  and  smiled.  "I 
can  get  along  a  day  or  two,  I  think."  He  was 


254         THE  TASTE  OF  APPLES 

laughing  now.  "It's  pretty  good  to  get  you  and 

Father  back How  is  he?"  he  had  turned  to 

him. 

"I'm  well — quite  well  again — "  He  was 
leaning  forward  a  little,  looking  at  the  pushing, 
hurrying  mass  surging  on  either  side  of  the 
taxi.  .  .  . 

Mother's  glance  followed  it — "It  seems  kind 
o'  good  to  get  back — "  she  said,  with  a  little 
gesture  of  surprise. 

He  turned  and  smiled  at  her.  "You  like  it 
— as  well  as  I  do,  Mother !" 

"I  hope  not,"  she  said  sternly. 

But  she  bent  forward  again  and  looked — 
"There  is  something  .  .  . !" 

"There  certainly  is,"  laughed  John.  "I've 
been  here  three  weeks  now,  and  I'm  just  about 
as  drunk  with  it  as  I  was  the  first  day  I 
came " 

"John  Wickham!" 

"Figuratively  drunk,  Mother!  You  seem  to 
forget  I've  had  Wallace." 

"How  is  Wally4?"  asked  Mother  quickly. 


RETURN  TO  THE  TEMPLE      255 

"Fine!"  said  John.  He  and  Anthony  ex- 
changed a  look.  "He's  gained  ten  pounds,  I'll 
warrant,  since  you've  been  gone " 

"It  wouldn't  do  for  Wally  to  get  too  fat!" 
said  Mother  thoughtfully.  "I've  got  three^new 
dresses " 

"Indeed !"  said  John — he  looked  down  at  her 
mockingly,  and  Anthony,  watching  them  with 
quiet  eyes,  smiled  at  the  little  play  between  them. 

They  would  have  a  real  vacation  now — and 
see  something  of  the  boy.  It  was  years  si:  ce 
they  had  really  seen  him.  Even  in  college,  there 
had  always  been  work  planned  for  vacations — 
first  chain-carrying  and  later  more  responsible 
work.  The  boy  had  always  done  his  share — he 
had  worked  hard — and  made  his  way.  .  .  . 
Wallace  had  told  them — more  than  they  had 
known  before — how  the  Management  trusted 
him.  To  Anthony,  Wallace  had  confided  that 
John  would  some  day  be  a  rich  man.  "They 
don't  stop  when  once  they  begin — with  a  man 
like  John,"  Wallace  had  said.  "It's  the  top  or 
nothing!" 


256         THE  TASTE  OF  APPLES 

"He'll  have  enough  to  take  care  of  Mother 
then  if  anything — should  happen  to  me,"  said 
Anthony,  "I  wouldn't  want  Mother  worried." 

Wallace  laughed  a  little — and  he  laid  his 
hand  affectionately  on  Anthony's  arm.  "If 
anything  should  happen  to  you,  Mr.  Wickham, 
John  could  buy  up  your  shoeshop — and  the 
whole  town  of  Bolton — twice  over!  .  .  .  You 
don't  quite  understand  what  it  means — to  be 
in  with  the  Steel  Trust." 

"I  don't  suppose  I  do,"  said  Anthony.  "I 
only  didn't  want  Mother  worried." 


XXXI 

A    CALL    ON    NURSE    TIMBERLAKE 

WALLACE'S  fingers  drummed  a  little  on  the  arm 
of  his  chair.  "I  haven't  seen  much  of  John — 
since  you  came  back,"  he  said  thoughtfully. 

"You  have  kind  o'  missed  each  other,"  said 
Mother. 

"I've  been  here  every  day,"  remarked  Wal- 
lace. 

"So  you  have,"  said  Mother.  " — Have  an- 
other piece  of  pie,  Wally;  you've  only  had  one 
piece " 

So  Wally  took  his  pie — and  his  face  lighted 
a  little;  he  chewed  it  slowly  and  thoughtfully. 

"John's  a  good  deal  interested  in  something 
Nurse  Timberlake's  getting  up,"  said  Mother, 
" — kind  of  a  show  for  the  children." 

"Where  is  it  going  to  be*?"  asked  Wallace. 

"Down  there  somewheres — where  she  lives — 
John  knows." 

257 


258         THE  TASTE  OF  APPLES 

Wallace  glanced  up.     "Are  you  going  to  it*?" 

"Yes — we  thought  we'd  all  go.  You  can  go 
along  with  us  if  you  want  to,"  she  said  gra- 
ciously. 

"I'll  think  about  it,"  said  Wallace.  "Put  on 
your  bonnet  and  let's  go  for  a  walk." 

Mother  looked  a  little  guilty.  "I  ought  to  do 
my  dishes  first — ?" 

"Do  them  when  you  get  back,"  said  Wallace. 
"The  sun  won't  last  much  longer." 

Mother  looked  again  at  her  dishes — "Where 
were  you  thinking  of  going?"  she  asked  slowly. 

"Oh,  anywhere — Green  Park,  Hyde  Park; 
just  for  a  stroll,  you  know — come  on!" 

Mother's  face  grew  more  guilty.  "I  kind  o' 
hoped  you  wouldn't  want  to  go — to  the  Parks — 
not  to-day,"  she  said. 

"Why  not — ?  Don't  we  always  go  to  the 
Parks'?"  asked  Wallace.  He  looked  at  her  a  lit- 
tle puzzled. 

'•'That's  what  I  meant !"  said  Mother. 

"What — you — mearit — *?" 

She  nodded  quickly.     "I  don't  suppose  you'll 


A  CALL  259 

understand  how  it  is,  Wally.  But  it  seems  to 
me,  if  I  see  another  one  of  those  green  chairs,  or 
flower-beds,  or  pieces  of  water  with  ducks  on 
'em,  I  shall  go  crazy!"  said  Mother. 

He  looked  at  her  in  astonishment.  "I 
thought  you  liked  it!"  he  said. 

"Well — I  did  like  it — just  for  a  time  or  two. 
But  now  that  I've  kept  on  seeing  it — and  see- 
ing it — I'm It  gets  on  my  nerves  I  guess !" 

She  laughed  a  little  and  righted  her  glasses — 
and  looked  at  him. 

He  returned  the  look — "I  never  dreamed  you 
felt  that  way — about  the  Parks!"  he  said. 

Mother's  look  of  guilt  deepened.  "I  know 
I  hadn't  ought  to,  Wally.  ...  I  can  see  folks 
like  'em — like  to  go  there — other  folks.  I  can 
see  people  walking  up  and  down,  liking  it. 
They  don't  look  happy  exactly,  but  I  can  see 
they  think  they're  enjoying  it — the  way  they  sit 
in  the  chairs  and  walk  on  the  walks  and  drive 
round.  .  .  .  Why,  nights  after  I  get  to  bed,  I 
shut  my  eyes  and  see  'em,  Wally — driving  and 
sitting — and  those  miles  of  green  chairs — They 


260         THE  TASTE  OF  APPLES 

just  go  round  and  round.  ...  I  guess  I'm  not 
a  round-and-round  sort  of  person,'*  she  said 
meekly. 

Wallace  laughed  out.  "Have  it  your  own 
way,  Mother.  I  won't  make  you  sit  in  a  green 
chair  if  you  don't  want  to." 

Mother's  face  cleared.  "Then  I  can  do  my 
dishes,"  she  said.  She  began  to  tie  on  her 
apron. 

Wallace  looked  at  her  sternly.  "You're  try- 
ing to  get  out  of  taking  exercise.  You  take  that 
right  off  and  put  on  your  bonnet;  we'll  go 
somewhere — somewhere  else — where  there  aren't 
any  green  chairs." 

Mother  obeyed,  beaming.  .  .  .  Anthony  and 
John  always  let  her  do  exactly  as  she  pleased. 
Wallace  seldom  let  her  have  her  own  way,  and 
when  he  did  he  made  her  pay  for  it. 

She  tied  on  her  bonnet  with  thoughtful  fin- 
gers and  smoothed  her  hair.  "You  hadn't 
thought  where  we'd  go — had  you*?" 

"I  think  we'll  go  and  call  on  Miss  Timber- 
lake,"  said  Wallace. 


A  CALL  261 

"That's  a  good  idea,  Wally!"  said  Mother. 
"Perhaps  we'll  find  John!" 

"Perhaps,"  said  Wallace  briefly. 

But  when  they  had  climbed  the  stairs  to  Nurse 
Timber-lake's  little  apartment,  they  found  her 
alone  and  another  cup  and  plate  across  the  table 
from  her. 

She  sprang  up  to  welcome  them.  "Come 
right  in — I'll  make  fresh  tea " 

"We've  had  tea,"  said  Mother,  " — and 
Wally's  had  his  pie — two  pieces." 

Nurse  Timberlake  laughed  out,  "He  ought  to 
be  in  good  humour  then — sit  down." 

"We  thought  maybe  we'd  find  John  here," 
said  Mother. 

A  quick  flush  had  come  into  Nurse  Timber 
lake's  face — Wallace's  eye  happened  to  rest  on 
it. 

"He  said  he  was  coming,"  said  Mother. 

"He's  been  here — yes.  But  he  had  to  go — 
in  a  minute."  The  nurse  busied  herself  with 
the  tea-things,  pushing  back  the  table  and  right- 
ing the  room. 


262         THE  TASTE  OF  APPLES 

Wallace's  eyes  studied  the  rug. 

"Wally  wanted  to  come,"  said  Mother,  "and 
we  thought  we'd  do  it  instead  of  the  Parks. 
We've  got  a  little  tired  of  the  Parks — there's 
so  much  grass  in  parks " 

Nurse  Timberlake's  face  looked  at  her,  smil- 
ing. "You  didn't  feel  that  way  at  Thurlow — 
about  the  garden,  did  you,  and  the  grounds?" 

"Castles  are  different  from  parks — all  those 
people  walking  around,"  said  Mother.  "I 
can't  explain  how  it  is  if  you  don't  feel  it  that 
way " 

Wallace  looked  at  her.  "You're  getting  to  be 
a  snob,  Mother,"  he  said  sternly,  " — a  regular, 
castle-visiting,  tuft-hunting  snob!" 

"I  don't  know  what  I've  got  to  snob  about, 
Wally,"  said  Mother  meekly.  .  .  .  "The 
Castle  is  human-like — anybody  can  see  it's  differ- 
ent. But  the  Parks.  .  .  .  It's  the  way  I've  al- 
ways thought  I'd  feel  about  heaven,  maybe — " 
said  Mother,  a  little  guiltily — "kind  of 
everybody-comfortable-and-standing-around-and- 
doing-no thing  sort  of  place — I  always  knew  I 


A  CALL  263 

shouldn't  feel  at  home  in  heaven — not  at  first. 
I  like  home  places." 

"You'll  never  be  a  socialist,"  said  Wallace. 

"I  don't  want  to  be  a  socialist,"  said  Mother 
proudly. 

"Nurse  Timberlake's  one.  All  the  nicest 
people  are  socialists." 

Mother  looked  at  him — "Not  in  Bolton,"  she 
replied.  "I  never  heard  of  any  socialists  in 
Bolton — folks  are  pretty  comfortable  there.  .  .  . 
You  ought  to  remember  how  it  is  in  Bolton, 
Wally!" 

"I  can't  truthfully  say  I  do  remember  any- 
thing of  the  kind — when  I  was  a  boy;  but 
things  change,  you  know — the  world  moves " 

"The  world  doesn't  move  in  Bolton,"  said 
Mother  firmly.  There  was  a  little  rising  colour 
in  her  face  in  defence  of  Bolton. 

"Are  you  coming  to  my  show?"  asked  Nurse 
Timberlake  quietly;  she  was  not  going  to  let 
Mother  be  bothered  like  this 

Wallace  glanced  at  her.  "You  think  she 
minds,"  he  said,  nodding  toward  Mother's 


264         THE  TASTE  OF  APPLES 

flushed  cheeks  and  the  little  flustered  air — "She 
dotes  on  it — don't  you,  Mother*?" 

"Wally  understands  me,"  said  Mother,  "but 
he  bothers  me  sometimes.  .  .  .  We're  coming 
to  the  show — all  of  us,"  she  said.  "Wally's 
coming " 

"If  you  invite  me,"  said  Wallace. 

"Oh,  we  invite  every  one — if  you  pay — Haif- 
a-crown for  the  best  seats,  and  three-pence  for 
the  gallery!  It's  for  the  work,  you  know." 

"We'd  better  have  the  half-crown  ones, 
Wally,"  said  Mother  significantly. 

"Quite — "  said  Wallace,  "you  take  subscrip- 
tions, too,  I  suppose *?" 

"We're  hoping  for  them — yes.  Mr.  Wick- 
ham  has  given  one  already." 

"Anthony!"  said  Mother  surprised. 

"John!"  said  Nurse  Timberlake,  smiling. 

"Oh — John — of  course!"  said  Mother.  She 
beamed  on  the  room.  "How  much  did  John 
subscribe*?"  she  asked. 

"If  it  isn't  a  secret — "  said  Wallace. 

"A  hundred  pounds,"  said  Nurse. 


A  CALL  265 

'Til  put  down  two  hundred,"  said  Wallace. 

Nurse  Timberlake  flushed  a  little — "It  isn't 
necessary,  a  hundred  is  quite  enough — "  she 
said. 

"You  mean  you  refuse  subscriptions — for 
your  work."  He  was  looking  at  her  quietly. 

"Sometimes — yes — "  she  hesitated  a  moment. 
"But  give  it — if  you  like.  I  really  have  no 
right  to  refuse  anything — that  people  want  to 
subscribe."  She  had  recovered  her  poise,  and 
was  smiling  at  him. 

"I  think  we'll  call  it  two  hundred,"  he  said. 

Mother  looked  at  him — then  she  looked  at 
Nurse  Timberlake — and  back  at  Wallace,  a  little 
puzzled  light  in  her  face —  "I  think  you'd 
better  give  the  same  as  John  does,  Wally — You 
both  give  a  hundred — that's  five  hundred  dol- 
lars, you  know,"  she  said  meaningly. 

"Very  well,"  said  Wallace.  "Mother  says 
I'm  to  make  it  a  hundred."  He  looked  at  Nurse 
Timberlake, 

"Thank  you,"  she  said.  But  the  little  colour 
had  risen  again  in  her  face. 


XXXII 

MOTHER    MAKES    A    DISCOVERY 

IT  was  a  little  cool  in  the  evening  and  Mother 
had  lighted  a  fire  in  the  grate.  Anthony  sat  by 
it,  reading  the  paper.  Wallace,  having  brought 
Mother  safely  home  from  Nurse  Timberlake's, 
had  had  supper  with  them  and  gone  away. 
John  had  not  been  in  all  day. 

Mother  was  thinking  about  John  as  she  fin- 
ished the  last  of  the  dishes.  There  was  still 
daylight  enough  to  see  by  at  six  o'clock,  and 
she  had  not  lighted  the  gas — but  it  was  growing 
a  little  dusky  in  the  room.  She  looked  over  at 
Anthony — 

"You'll  spoil  your  eyes — "  she  said. 

He  laid  down  the  paper  and  took  off  his 
glasses,  rubbing  his  eyes  a  little.  "It  is  getting 
dark.  But  the  daylight  lasts  a  long  time  now." 

He  glanced  at  the  window  in  the  west.     The 

266 


MOTHER  MAKES  A  DISCOVERY     267 

canary  was  hopping  about  in  his  cage,  trying  to 
settle  down  for  the  night. 

Mother  threw  a  cloth  over  the  cage,  "Go  to 
sleep!"  she  said.  She  came  over  to  the  fire. 
Her  face,  where  the  light  touched  it,  was  very 
sober  in  its  roundness. 

Anthony  looked  at  it,  bending  forward  a  lit- 
tle in  the  firelight  to  see.  He  sat  up,  polishing 
his  glasses — "Anything  the  matter,  Mother?" 
he  asked. 

"No,"  said  Mother.  She  sat  down  opposite 
him,  and  got  up  and  fussed  at  the  fire,  and  sat 
down  again  plumply. 

"You  haven't  noticed  anything  about — 
Wally — have  you,  Father?" 

"About  Wallace—!" 

"Yes.  .  .  .  You  hadn't  noticed  that  he's — 
that  he's  getting  fond — of — Nurse  Timber- 
lake!" 

She  threw  it  at  him — like  a  bomb — and 
waited,  breathless. 

Anthony  was  silent;  he  had  stopped  polishing 
the  glasses,  suddenly,  and  was  looking  down  at 


268         THE  TASTE  OF  APPLES 

them;  he  put  them  on  slowly  and  glanced  across 
through  the  dimness — "I  guess  everybody's  fond 
of  Nurse  Timberlake,"  he  said. 

"You  know  what  I  mean,  Anthony — "  Her 
tone  reproached  him.  "We  were  down  there — 
this  afternoon " 

"Yes." 

"Well — "  she  sighed  a  little — "there  wasn't 
anything  you  could  really  put  your  finger 
on — but  all  of  a  sudden,  I  seemed  to  sense 
something — going  on!"  She  turned  to  him 
sternly. 

Anthony  smiled.  "I  don't  doubt  there  was — 
There  generally  is,  isn't  there — with  Nurse  Tim- 
berlake  T 

"I  don't  mean  that — "  said  Mother  quickly. 
"It  was  something  special — before  a  thunder- 
storm, you  know?"  She  leaned  forward,  look- 
ing at  him  significantly. 

"Electricity!" 

"You  can  call  it  what  you  want  to,"  said 
Mother.  "I'm  disappointed — in  Wally!" 

"In  Wallace?"     Anthony  sat  up,  and  looked 


MOTHER  MAKES  A  DISCOVERY     269 

across    at    her.     "Wallace    can't    do    anything 
wrong !" 

"I  'most  wish  you  wouldn't  make  fun  of  me, 
Anthony."  Her  voice  quavered  a  little — "I'm 

all  upset " 

"Tell  me  about  it,"  said  Anthony  gently. 
"I'd  been  planning  her  for  John  you  know," 
said  Mother. 

"Yes — and  John — has  he  been  planning  her, 
too?" 

"How  do  I  know,  Anthony ! — I  couldn't  speak 

about  it — to  him — a  thing  like  that !" 

"No — I  suppose  you  couldn't.  ...  I  hadn't 
thought  John  was  quite  so  badly  hit  as  Wal- 
lace— "  he  said  musingly. 

"You've  seen  it — !"  cried  Mother. 
Anthony  checked   himself — "Well,   yes — I'd 
noticed — one  or  two  things — "  he  said  feebly. 

"I  thought  I'd  noticed  'em " 

Mother's  voice  was  muffled.     "I  don't  see  why 

you  didn't  tell  me !" 

"I     thought    you    saw     it — Mother.     There, 
there! — don't  feel  so!" 


270         THE  TASTE  OF  APPLES 

"I  never — saw — a  thing — "  she  sobbed.  "Ex- 
cept just  Wallace  liking  to  come — and  enjoying 
pie.  ...  I  thought  he  came  to  see  me!" 

"Of  course  he  did!"  said  Anthony  promptly. 
"He  thinks  the  world  and  all  of  you — as  if  you 
were  his  Mother." 

"And  John  is  my  boy,  too !  I  don't  see  what 
I'm  going  to  do  about  it — Anthony  Wickham! 
Can  they  both  marry  her !" 

"I  don't  think  they'll  want  to,"  said  Anthony 
consolingly.  "Don't  you  think  you'd  better 
leave  it  to  the  Lord,  Mother — and  to  Nurse 
Timberlake?"  he  added,  after  a  moment. 

Mother  dried  her  eyes.  "I  don't  believe  she 
has  the  least  idea!"  she  announced. 

Anthony  smiled,  out  of  his  dimness — "I  don't 
feel  too  sure.  .  .  .  Her  cap  is  a  very  becoming 
one!  .  .  .  and  besides  you  don't  know  how 
John  feels'?" 

"No,"  admitted  Mother.  "But  I've  always 
planned  her  for  him — for  John — you  know — 
from  the  first *?" 


MOTHER  MAKES  A  DISCOVERY     271 

"Yes,  I  know.  .  .  .  Isn't  there  something 
about  its  taking  two — to  make  a  match*?" 

"It's  just  a  kind  of  a  joke  for  you,  Anthony! 
But  I'm  the  Mother  of  one  of  'em  and  just  as 
good  as  the  mother  of  the  other " 

"Better!"  said  Anthony. 

But  Mother  did  not  heed  him — "If  I  was  sure 
about  how  he  feels — about  how  John  feels — 
I'd  let  Wallace  have  her!"  she  said  magnani- 
mously. 

"He's  coming — "  said  Anthony,  turning  to 
listen  to  a  sound  on  the  stairs.  "You  can  ask 
him " 

"Anthony  Wickham!"  she  whispered,  "don't 
you  dare  say  a  word — not  a  word!  .  .  .  And 
don't  you  light  up — not  yet — till  I've  got  my 
face  dried  off.  .  .  ."  She  turned  toward  the 
door.  "Is  that  you,  John — come  right  in — we 
were  talking  about  you — where  have  you  been 
all  day?' 

"All  in  the  dark — aren't  you!"  said  John. 
He  came  across  to  the  fire.  "I  can't  see  a  thing! 


272         THE  TASTE  OF  APPLES 

But  I  judge  everybody's  here."     He  felt  for  a 
chair. 

"We're  here,"  said  Anthony,  "and  glad  you've 
come.  I  had  something  to  ask  you " 

"Don't  bother  John  about  things,  Father!" 
said  Mother  warningly. 

"This  won't  bother,"  said  Anthony.  "It's  a 
young  fellow  I  met  in  the  book  shop  to-day.  He 
wants  to  go  to  America.  I  told  him  I'd  ask 
John  what  he  thought " 

"It's  all  right  to  ask  him  that,"  said  Mother 
graciously. 
Anthony  smiled — "I  thought  you'd  let  me." 

So  while  the  conversation  took  a  safe  turn — 
and  John  asked  questions  about  the  young  man 
who  wanted  to  go  to  America,  and  planned  to  see 
him,  and  agreed  to  help  if  he  could — Mother  re- 
tired into  herself — and  laid  her  plans  to  help 
Providence.  .  .  . 

Presently  she  broke  in — "We  were  down  to 
Nurse  Timberlake's  this  afternoon,"  she  said. 

John  turned  a  little.     "I  was  there,   too.     I 
had  to  run  away  early — an  engagement." 


MOTHER  MAKES  A  DISCOVERY     273 

"She  said  you'd  been  there/'  said  Mother. 
She  got  up  and  lighted  the  gas.  Then  she  put 
on  her  glasses  and  looked  at  him. 

He  was  talking  with  Anthony  again.  .  .  . 
Mother  waited,  and  watched  him,  and  thought 
of  Wallace,  and  got  up  impatiently,  knocking 
down  the  tongs  and  fire  shovel. 

"Mother — what  a  racket  for  a  little  woman !" 
said  John.  He  righted  them  and  looked  at 
her. 

"You  hadn't  ever  thought  of  getting  married, 
I  suppose — "  said  Mother  casually. 

He  looked  at  her — and  his  eyes  twinkled — 
"I  might — if  encouraged,"  he  replied. 

She  glanced  meaningly  at  Anthony.  "I 
shouldn't  think  of  encouraging  you — nor  dis- 
couraging you,  either.  It's  a  risk  either  way — " 
She  broke  off  suddenly,  a  little  quaver  in  her 
voice.  "I  guess  I'm  tired.  I'd  better  go — to 
bed." 

John  got  up  and  kissed  her.  "Good-night, 
Mother."  He  looked  down  on  her,  smiling. 
"Don't  you  worry  about  me,  I  shall  have  some- 


274         THE  TASTE  OF  APPLES 

thing  good  to  tell  you — some  day — if  everything 
goes  right,"  he  said. 

"Oh,  dear!"  said  Mother— "Oh,  dear  me!  I 
can't  say  another  word!"  She  darted  across 
the  room,  and  closed  the  door  safely  between 
them. 

John  looked  at  it.  "She's  all  upset — isn't 
she!" 

"Tired — "  said  Anthony.  "Mother's  tired — 
and  things  trouble  her — when  she's  tired." 


XXXIII 

SHE    QUESTIONS    WALLACE 

MOTHER  was  sitting  in  a  green  chair,  looking  at 
the  wheels  go  "round  and  round."  Wallace  had 
persuaded  her  to  come  out — "You'll  like  it, 
Mother — come  on!  You're  all  used  up.  It 
will  do  you  good." 

Mother  did  look  tired — there  was  no  denying 
it — her  face  was  screwed  in  little  wrinkles,  and 
there  was  a  look  in  her  eyes — as  if  she  saw  some- 
thing coming  that  she  hoped  would  not  hit  her. 
Sitting  in  her  green  chair,  she  watched  the  cars 
spin  past  and  the  crowd  stroll  along  the  walk — 
old  men  and  dogs,  women  and  boys;  and  Wal- 
lace watched  Mother's  face. 

"What's  worrying  you4?"  he  said. 

"Nothing,"  said  Mother  promptly.  "I'm 
feeling  real  good!"  She  told  it  off  glibly,  and 
Wallace  looked  down  at  her  with  a  smile. 

"You'd  better  tell  me — "  he  said. 

275 


276         THE  TASTE  OF  APPLES 

She  shook  her  head.  "It's  just  a  notion  of 
yours  I  guess.  Anthony  was  saying  this  morn- 
ing, I  looked  peaked — but  I  feel  first-rate.  .  .  . 
A  man  wants  to  paint  my  picture,"  she  said 
complacently,  " — I  guess  I  don't  look  so  very 
bad!" 

Wallace  stared  a  little.  "Who  is  it?"  he 
asked. 

Mother  smiled.  She  had  been  keeping  it  for 
a  surprise  for  Wallace.  "A  man — "  she  said, 
" — a  man  I  saw  in  the  book  shop  yesterday." 

"Oh — you've  been  there!"  Wallace  did  not 
care  for  the  book  shop. 

"Anthony  wanted  me  to  go,"  said  Mother 
humbly,  "and  you  said  you  couldn't  come  yes- 
terday; so  I  went." 

"Did  you  like  it?"  asked  Wallace  after  a 
pause. 

"Pretty  well,"  said  Mother.  "They  talked 
kind  o'  loud  and  fast — all  together,  you  know — 
and  they  shouted  some — and  laughed  and  hol- 
lered— but  they  acted  as  if  they  had  a  good 
time — all  of  'em.  I  sat  on  a  stool — for  a 


SHE  QUESTIONS  WALLACE     277 

while,  a  high  one,  nobody  seemed  to  notice  much 
of  anything,  one  way  or  the  other;  and  then  Mr. 
Boyden — the  man  that  laughs,  you  know*?" 
She  looked  at  him. 

Wallace  nodded.     "Yes,  I  know." 

" — He  saw  where  I  was — and  he  just  laughed 
out — hard — and  made  me  sit  in  his  chair  .  .  . 
my  feet  didn't  touch  on  the  stool — not  anywhere 
near " 

"Of  course  not,"  said  Wallace — "I  don't 
think  it's  a  very  good  place  for  you  to  go,"  he 
added  after  a  minute. 

"Anthony  likes  it,"  said  Mother.  "He  says 
they  have  ideas.  .  .  .  This  man  that  wants  to 
paint  my  picture — he  didn't  talk  so  much  as  the 
rest.  He  just  sort  of  sat  forward,  looking — 
And  when  we  got  up  to  come  away  he  asked  An- 
thony if  he  supposed  I'd  let  him  do  me." 
There  was  pride  in  Mother's  voice.  She  was 
gazing  uncritically  at  the  crowd  moving  along 
the  walk  in  front  of  them. 

Wallace  glanced  down  at  her.  He  would 
look  up  this  fellow  who  wanted  to  paint  Mother. 


278         THE  TASTE  OF  APPLES 

It  was  all  very  well  for  Wallace  to  make  fun 
of  her  and  enjoy  her  quaintnesses — but  if  any 
painter  in  a  book  shop  thought  he  was  going  to 
hold  her  up  to  ridicule,  he  would  find  he  had 
Wallace  Tilton  to  deal  with.  .  .  .  "What  is 
his  name?"  he  asked. 

She  looked  up  at  him  from  her  crowd — be- 
wildered. ...  "I  was  just  noticing  about 
their  hats — They're  queer — some  of  them " 

"They  truly  are!"  said  Wallace.  "What 
was  his  name — this  artist  you  spoke  of1?" 

Mother  brightened.  "They  called  him — 
Cameron,"  she  said. 

"Never  heard  of  him,"  said  Wallace. 

"He's  Scotch,  I  guess,"  said  Mother.  "He 
told  Anthony  I  made  him  think  of  his  mother — 
in  Scotland." 

Wallace's  face  softened  a  little.  "Well — 
he's  all  right  probably." 

"You  think  he'll  do  a  good  likeness  of  me*?" 
said  Mother  anxiously. 

"Probably — if  you  made  him  think  of  his 
mother.  It's  worth  trying  anyway." 


SHE  QUESTIONS  WALLACE     279 

"I  thought  I'd  like  to  have  him  try — "  said 
Mother.  "Nobody  ever  wanted  to  do  me  be- 
fore— and  we've  never  had  a  real  good  photog- 
rapher in  Bolton.  ...  I  had  one  likeness  taken 
— but  Anthony  didn't  like  it.  ...  The  man 
rubbed  out  the  wrinkles — I  told  him  to  do  it — " 
said  Mother  a  little  guiltily.  "I  thought  I 
should  like  it,  maybe — but  I  didn't.  It  didn't 
look  natural  somehow " 

"Of  course  not,"  said  Wallace.  "You — 
without  your  wrinkles!"  He  smiled  down  at 
her  affectionately,  and  the  wrinkles  smoothed 
themselves  softly,  one  by  one,  leaving  little  lines 
of  kindliness  and  shrewd  trust. 

She  turned  them  on  the  crowd.  "I'm  getting 
to  like  folks — a  little,"  she  said.  "But  it  isn't 
like  Bolton." 

"Not  in  the  least  like  Bolton!"  said  Wally. 
"But  you'll  like  it  first-rate  in  time — See  if  you 
don't." 

She  turned  hopefully.  "I  don't  suppose  you 
ever  felt — the  way  I  do  about  it!" 

He  smiled  a  little.     "I  don't  know  that  I  can 


280         THE  TASTE  OF  APPLES 

say  that.  .  .  .  The  first  year  I  was  so  home- 
sick I  would  have  given  all  my  old  shoes,  to  go 
back — and  the  second  year  I  had  a  kind  of  mel- 
ancholy resignation " 

"That's  what  mine  is,  I  think " 

"Perhaps — "  Wallace  smiled.  "And  the 
third  year  I  caught  on " 

"You  caught  what?" 

"Caught  on — understood  people — how  they 
were  feeling  down  inside,  you  know.  And  now 
you  couldn't  hire  me  to  go  back — It's  a  big 
place,"  he  added,  smiling  down  at  her. 

"That's  what  I  keep  feeling — all  the  time — " 
said  Mother  swiftly,  " — that  it's  big.  I'm  like 
a  kind  of  little  leaf  blowing  around  in  it.  ... 
Maybe  I  might  'catch  on'  to  something — the 
way  you  did — if  we  stayed  long  enough — but 
we  shan't — "  she  said  hopefully,  .  .  .  "it's  only 
a  month  now!"  She  beamed  on  him. 

"I  shall  miss  you  terribly,"  said  Wallace. 
"You  hadn't  thought  of  that,  I  suppose?" 

"Yes — you'll  miss  us.  ...  How  did  you 
do  before  we  came  over?"  inquired  Mother. 


SHE  QUESTIONS  WALLACE     281 

"I  existed — that's  all — just  barely  existed." 
He  did  not  think  it  necessary  to  give  her  all  the 
details  of  existence  before  she  "came  over." 
Looking  back  on  it  now  it  seemed  curiously 
futile.  .  .  .  Well — he  was  done  with  that — 
thanks  to  Mother — and  pie!  Wallace  was  not 
without  a  sense  of  humour  about  the  pies  and  the 
part  they  had  played  in  his  regeneration. 

"You'd  better  go  back  home  with  us,"  said 
Mother.  She  was  looking  at  him  affectionately. 

"I  couldn't  be  hired  to  go  back — anywhere!" 
replied  Wallace.  "And  this  is  home  now." 
He  waited  a  minute — "I  shall  probably  marry 
and  settle  down  here,"  he  said  slowly. 

Mother  jumped — nearly  out  of  her  green 
chair.  "When  are  you  going  to  get  married*?" 
she  asked. 

"Sometime — I — hope,"  said  Wallace. 

"Not  to  anybody  in  particular4?"  she  beamed 
diplomatically. 

"Not  to  anybody — in  particular,"  assented 
Wallace.  "Not  yet — "  He  had  turned  in  his 
chair  and  was  watching  the  crowd — a  little  smile 


282         THE  TASTE  OF  APPLES 

played  on  his  lip.  .  .  .  The  shadows  from  the 
tree  overhead  fell  on  his  face  and  flecked  his 
grey  coat.  Mother,  looking  up  at  him,  had  a 
little  sudden  pang;  he  had  always  been  a  good- 
looking  boy — and  he  was  two  inches  taller 
than  John.  She  sighed  softly  and  looked  back 
at  the  whirling  crowd. 

"I  suppose  if  you  married — an  English 
woman,  you'd  have  to  stay  over  here  any- 
way  ?" 

He  dropped  an  eye  on  her.  "Not  if  I  wanted 
to  go  back,"  he  said  comfortably,  " — but  I 
don't."  He  settled  himself  more  firmly  in  his 
green  chair. 

"She  might  not  like  to  leave  her  castle,"  said 
Mother  thoughtfully. 

"Her  castle!"  He  opened  his  eyes  at  her 
and  laughed.  "You  think  everybody  lives  in 
castles — since  you've  been  to  Thurlow!"  He 
said  it  mockingly. 

"Some  of  the  nicest  ones  do,"  said  Mother. 

"This  one  doesn't.  She  is  poor — works 
for  her  living."  He  said  it  with  quiet  satis- 


SHE  QUESTIONS  WALLACE     283 

faction.  "I  can  give  her  more  money  in  a  year 
than  she  has  had — in  her  whole  life!"  He 
laughed  a  little — and  turned  and  looked  down 
on  her  out  of  happy  eyes. 

Mother's  mouth  opened — and  shut;  she  looked 
at  him  helplessly.  Slowly  a  look  came  into  her 
face — a  deep,  guileless  look.  .  .  .  "You 
wouldn't  want  to  marry  a  rich  wife,  would  you, 
Wally — not  one  with  a  castle?" 

"I  should  notr  said  Wallace.  He  said  it 
with  emphasis. 

And  Mother  smiled — the  round,  motherly 
smile  that  took  in  Wallace  and  the  crowd  and 
the  motor-cars  that  went  whizzing  by  beyond. 
"I'm  glad  you  feel  that  way  about  it,  Wallace. 
I  might  have  known  you  would,"  said  Mother. 
"You  always  did  like  your  own  way!" 


XXXIV 

AND    LOSES    HER    CAP 

"I'LL  put  on  my  cap,"  said  Mother. 

The  artist  moved  back  a  little,  looking  at  her 
— "I  was  thinking  of  doing  you  in  your  bonnet 
and  mantle,"  he  said — "the  way  I  saw  you — the 
other  day." 

"I'd  rather  be  taken  in  my  cap,"  said  Mother 
promptly.  "Wallace  brought  it  for  me."  She 
held  out  her  hand  to  Wallace  for  her  cap-box. 

The  artist  watched  the  movement  and  turned 
toward  his  easel. 

"You've  got  a  looking-glass  somewhere — *?" 
said  Mother,  looking  about  her.  The  studio  was 
singularly  bare — grey  walls,  a  great  screen,  three 
or  four  chairs,  a  little  table  and  canvases  stacked 
against  the  wall  or  standing  propped  against 
chairs.  "I  don't  see  any  glass,"  said  Mother,  a 

little  disappointment  in  her  voice.     "But  I  can 

284 


AND  LOSES  HER  CAP  285 

do  without  it,  all  right,  I  guess — Wallace  will 
tell  me — "  She  began  to  untie  her  bonnet 
strings  slowly. 

The  artist  was  still  looking  at  the  bonnet — 
"You  don't  think  you  would  like  to  keep  it  on*?" 
he  suggested  again. 

She  shook  her  head  at  him  firmly.  "I  look 
better  in  my  cap,"  she  said. 

He  turned  away.  "There  is  a  looking-glass 
behind  the  screen."  He  pushed  his  easel  a  lit- 
tle under  the  light  and  wheeled  the  model  stand 
in  place. 

Mother  disappeared  behind  the  screen.  Cam- 
eron looked  toward  Wallace,  who  was  standing 
where  Mother  had  left  him,  looking  about  the 
high,  bleak  room. 

"Sit  down,  won't  you*?"  he  said.  "I'm  fright- 
fully disappointed,  you  know — I'd  got  an  idea 
of  how  to  do  her — and  there  wasn't  any  cap  in. 
it."  He  smiled  a  little. 

"I  wanted  to  speak  to  you  about  the  picture," 
said  Wallace.  He  had  not  seated  himself.  He 
was  standing  with  his  hand  on  the  chair,  look- 


286         THE  TASTE  OF  APPLES 

ing  at  the  artist.  "I  should  like  it  to  be  my 
property  when  it  is  done." 

The  artist  stirred  a  little  and  looked  at  him. 
"That's  very  kind,"  he  said.  "But  I— I  want 
to  exhibit,  you — know " 

Wallace  returned  the  look.  "We  can  decide 
about  that  when  the  picture  is  done,"  he  said. 

"I've  an  idea  I  can  do  something  pretty  good 
with  it,"  said  the  artist.  "I  seemed  to  see  it, 
the  other  day — I  felt  like  a  boy !" 

Wallace  sat  down.  "You  don't  mind  my 
staying?" 

"Not  in  the  least — Make  yourself  at  home." 

"Now,  where  do  you  want  me  to  sit*?"  said 
Mother.  She  had  appeared  around  the  corner 
of  the  screen  in  all  the  radiance  of  her  cap. 

The  artist  looked  at  her Slowly  a  smile 

came  to  his  face.  He  motioned  toward  the 
model  stand. 

"Up  there — on  that  thing!"  said  Mother. 
"Mercy!" 

She  mounted  it  and  unrolled  her  work.  "I 
brought  my  knitting,"  she  said.  "I  can  knit 


AND  LOSES  HER  CAP  287 

without  looking  on,  and  I  like  to  be  doing.  .  .  . 
Am  I  all  right?" 

"First-rate,"  replied  the  artist  absently.  He 
was  walking  about  the  stand,  looking  at  her. 
"I  shall  have  to  set  a  new  palette — "  he  said 
slowly.  "I  had  one  ready.  But  the  cap 
changes  the  key — "  He  went  back  to  his  easel. 

Mother  looked  at  Wallace  helplessly. 
"There  isn't  anything  wrong  with  it — is  there, 
Wally1?"  she  whispered,  putting  up  a  hand. 

"Your  cap's  all  right,  Mother — don't 
worry !" 

The  wrinkles  smoothed  themselves  and 
Mother's  needles  moved  swiftly, — happy,  dart- 
ing, twinkling  lines  of  rhythm.  The  artist 
mixed  his  colours  and  watched  the  needles  and 
watched  the  face.  Wallace  was  talking  to 
Mother,  chaffing  her,  and  the  face  looking  down 
at  the  needles  was  shrewd  and  happy.  The 
artist  drew  a  line  or  two  on  the  edge  of  his  can- 
vas. 

Mother's  quick  eye  caught  the  movement  and 
a  stone  curtain  dropped  upon  her.  The  happy 


288         THE  TASTE  OF  APPLES 

face  became  a  blank — every  wrinkle  in  it  a 
stiff,  hopeless  ridge.  "He's  beginning,  Wally," 
she  said  swiftly,  "don't  interrupt !"  Her  ex- 
pression set  itself  firmly  ahead. 

The  artist  dropped  his  brush — "You  can  talk, 
you  know — all  you  want  to,"  he  said  a  little 
desperately. 

"I'd  rather  not  talk — while  I'm  being  taken," 
said  Mother.  "I  can't  keep  my  expression." 

The  artist  said  nothing.  He  went  on  mixing 
a  palette,  a  little  grim  smile  on  his  face. 

"You're  not  doing  me  now,  are  you4?"  said 
Mother. 

"No — I'm  not  doing  you — I'm  getting  my 
palette  ready." 

The  stony  look  relaxed  and  Mother  was  look- 
ing down  at  her  knitting  again  with  the  little 
shrewd,  homely  smile.  .  .  .  The  artist  moved 
swiftly  across  the  room  and  placed  another  can- 
vas on  an  easel,  a  little  to  the  right,  and  drew 
a  few  quick  strokes.  His  face  held  a  kind  of 
stern  light 

Wallace     Tilton      watched     him,      smiling. 


AND  LOSES  HER  CAP  289 

Mother  knitted  on,  serene.  Presently  she  looked 
up.  "It  takes  a  good  while  to  get  ready,  doesn't 
it*?"  she  said.  She  was  finishing  off  a  needle 
with  a  little  flourish  of  fingers,  and  she  set  it 
anew  and  looked  over  her  glasses  at  Wallace,  the 
fingers  flying  nimbly  of  themselves. 

The  artist  came  back,  guiltily,  to  his  first 
easel.  "I'm  nearly  ready,"  he  said.  He  stood 
off  and  looked  at  her,  and  drew  a  long,  slow 
line. 

"You  tell  me  when  you're  going  to  begin — *?" 
said  Mother. 

"Yes." 

"I've  always  noticed  that,  about  painting," 
she  said  placidly,  "when  we've  been  having  the 

kitchen  done It  seemed  as  if  they'd  never  get 

the  colour  right — fix  and  fuss  half  a  day  on  it. 
The  other  rooms  we  always  had  done  white,  and 
they'd  always  get  along  fast  enough  on  them." 

The  painter  stole  back  to  the  other  easel  and 
put  in  a  few  stealthy  lines  while  Mother  ram- 
bled on. 

So  the  two  canvases  went  on — side  by  side — 


290         THE  TASTE  OF  APPLES 

one  a  little,  old  lady  with  her  head  a  trifle  bent, 
looking  down  at  her  knitting — Mother  of  all  the 
world,  thinking  of  her  children;  the  other,  a 
very  prim  old  lady — who  never  had  a  wicked  or 
unvirtuous  thought  in  her  life — looking  with 
fixed  smile  into  the  cannon's  mouth. 

"It  looks  earnest,  doesn't  it,"  said  Mother. 
She  had  climbed  down  from  the  model  stand 
and  was  standing,  surveying  it  doubtfully. 

Wallace  stood  beside  her,  looking  on  and 
smiling  a  little. 

"You  think  it  looks  like  me,  Wally?"  she 
asked.  She  was  peering  at  the  rigid  face. 

"It  isn't  done  yet — you  know,"  said  Wallace. 
He  did  not  let  his  glance  stray  to  the  other  easel. 
It  was  only  when  Mother  had  disappeared  be- 
hind the  screen,  to  put  on  her  bonnet,  that  he 
walked  over  to  it  and  stood  looking  down  at  it — 
with  something  between  a  laugh  and  a  little 
quick  clutch  at  his  throat.  .  .  .  The  artist, 
cleaning  brushes  across  the  room,  nodded  slowly 
and  came  over.  "It's  going  to  be  all  right — 
you  think?" 


AND  LOSES  HER  CAP  291 

Wallace  glanced  at  him.  "You  could  never 
do  any  better — not  even  with  a  bonnet  on,"  he 
said. 

The  artist's  face  fell.  "I  did  want  that  bon- 
net." 

The  bonnet  reappeared.  Mother  bore  her 
cap-box  carefully  in  her  hand.  "I'm  thinking 
of  leaving  it  here — if  it  will  be  safe " 

"Perfectly  safe,"  said  the  artist.  "We'll  put 
it  up  here — "  He  placed  it  on  a  high  shelf 
and  Mother  looked  at  it  with  satisfaction.  "I 
didn't  want  anything  to  happen  to  it,"  she 
said. 

Just  what  did  happen  to  it  could  never  be 
rightly  explained.  But  when  Mother  and  An- 
thony appeared,  the  next  morning,  it  had  dis- 
appeared. The  artist  could  not  find  it — there 
were  so  few  places  to  look  in  the  bare  studio — 
and  at  last  Mother  was  persuaded  to  mount  the 
model-stand  in  bonnet  and  mantle.  "It's  my 
best  one!"  she  said  softly.  She  undid  the 
mantle  a  little — fluffing  out  the  feather  edge 
and  pulling  the  ribbon  bows  in  place  beneath 


292         THE  TASTE  OF  APPLES 

her  chin.  "Do  I  look  all  right,  Anthony1?"  she 
asked. 

"Much  as  usual,  Mother,"  said  Anthony. 

"I  can  bring  my  second-best  cap  to-morrow," 
she  said,  " — and  I  shall  take  it  home  with  me — 
it's  lucky  I  have  two." 

No  one  said  anything  and  the  artist  worked 
swiftly.  It  behooved  him  to  make  hay  while  the 
sun  was  shining.  "This  is  only  a  rough  sketch, 
you  know,"  he  said  casually,  stepping  back  to 
look. 

Mother's  face  relaxed — the  little  wrinkles 
rested  themselves  and  beamed.  "I  don't  need 
to  be  so  particular  how  I  look,  then *?" 

"Don't  be  particular  at  all,"  murmured  the 
artist. 

A  kind  of  rapture  held  his  face — there  would 
be  other  sittings — but  to-day  he  must  catch  the 
note  of  life  that  would  fill  them  all  and  make 
them  live. 


XXXV 

HER    PORTRAIT 

IT  was  partly  John's  plan,  and  partly  Cam- 
eron's— to  include  Anthony  in  the  picture.  The 
artist's  first  thought  when  John  spoke  to  him 
about  doing  a  portrait  of  his  father,  had  been 
that  he  would  paint  Anthony  alone — a  compan- 
ion piece  to  the  "Lady  in  a  Bonnet."  But  as  he 
saw  Anthony  and  Mother  together,  day  after 
day  in  the  studio,  they  came  gradually  in  his 
mind  into  the  compass  of  one  frame — with  only 
the  little  table  and  a  bowl  of  yellow  nasturtiums 
between  them.  ...  In  the  end,  this  was  the 
picture  that  went  to  the  exhibition,  and  won  for 
Cameron  a  place  in  the  world  of  artists.  .  .  . 
The  wrinkles  in  Mother's  face,  and  the  soul  look- 
ing out — and  the  bonnet — were  irresistible.  An- 
thony was  hardly  more  than  a  shadow,  a  mere 
sketch,  at  the  left  of  the  picture — yet  needed 
somehow,  subtly,  to  complete  its  meaning. 
As  the  work  went  on,  Mother  forgot  to  be 
293 


294         THE  TASTE  OF  APPLES 

anxious.  She  even  forgot  to  pose,  and  there  was 
a  comfortable  understanding  between  her  and  the 
artist  that  this  was  a  trial  sketch — a  rough  thing, 
so  to  speak;  the  real  work  would  begin  when 
she  donned  her  cap. 

The  studio  grew  to  be  a  friendly  meeting 
place.  Wallace,  coming  in  one  day  to  escort 
Mother  home.,  found  Nurse  Timberlake  sitting 
looking  at  the  portrait. 

"She  likes  it,  Wally!"  announced  Mother. 

He  shook  hands  with  Nurse  Timberlake 
gravely.  "Very  good,  isn't  it?"  He  nodded 
toward  the  portrait. 

"You  don't  think  Mr.  Wickham  is  a  little 
obscured?"  she  asked,  looking  thoughtfully  to- 
ward it. 

"No  more  than  usual,"  laughed  Wallace. 
"And  I  suspect — "  he  looked  again  at  the  por- 
trait— "I  suspect  that,  as  time  goes  on,  he  will 
come  to  seem  all  right — and  in  place.  .  .  . 
There's  something  about  him — in  his  shadow  in 
the  background  there — that  keeps  you  wonder- 
ing." 


HER  PORTRAIT  295 

"Of  course,"  said  Nurse  Timberlake. 

Wallace  smiled  a  little.  "Not  so  much  of 
course — unless  you  happen  to  be  an  artist,  like 
Cameron." 

"He  has  caught  the  spirit " 

Mother,  from  her  model-stand,  looked  down 
on  them.  "I  can't  hear  what  you're  saying — • 
very  well — "  she  said — "unless  you  speak 
louder." 

Nurse  Timberlake  came  over  to  the  stand. 
"We  were  saying  it  is  going  to  be  a  good  por- 
trait." She  nodded. toward  it. 

"Anthony's  in  it,  you  see?"  said  Mother. 

"Yes — We  were  just  saying  it  is  going  to  be 
capital  of  him." 

"I  want  his  legs  stouter,"  said  Mother,  look- 
ing at  it.  "I've  told  Mr.  Cameron  about  his 
legs.  Anthony's  legs  are  thin;  but  there's  enough 
to  'em  to  stand  on! — Did  you  see  John*?" 

The  nurse  turned  a  puzzled  face — 
"John ?" 

"I  sent  him  to  you  on  an  errand — to  your 
rooms,"  said  Mother. 


296         THE  TASTE  OF  APPLES 

"Oh — I  haven't  been  there  all  day." 

"He  can  go  again  to-morrow — You'll  be  there 
to-morrow,  I  suppose*?" 

Nurse  Timberlake  shook  her  head.  "I'm  go- 
ing to  be  away  all  day." 

"We  shan't  be  here  much  longer,"  replied 
Mother. 

Nurse  Timberlake  turned  an  amused  face  on 
her — "What  was  the  errand*?"  she  asked. 

The  studio  door  opened — "There  he  is  now !" 
said  Mother. 

He  came  over  and  shook  hands,  smiling  at  the 
group  around  the  stand — "Just  the  place  for 
you,  Mother — on  your  throne."  He  moved  over 
to  the  portrait. 

"I  want  to  see  you  a  minute,  John,"  said 
Mother  mysteriously. 

"All  right,  Mother — when  you  descend " 

"She's  through  for  to-day,"  said  the  artist. 
"Too  much  chatter  to  work  in."  He  moved  the 
easel  to  one  side. 

Mother  descended  from  her  throne,  and  beck- 
oned to  John  and  they  disappeared  behind  the 


HER  PORTRAIT  297 

screen.  The  artist  carried  his  brushes  across  the 
room. 

Nurse  Timberlake  began  to  put  on  her  gloves. 
Wallace  watched  her  a  minute.  "Are  you  go- 
ing right  home*?"  he  asked. 

"Yes."     She  was  buttoning  them  slowly. 

"I'll  walk  with  you  if  I  may " 

"Didn't  you  come  for  'Mother"?"  she  asked. 

"John  will  take  Mother,"  said  Wallace  de- 
cisively. 

She  appeared  from  behind  her  screen.  "I 
wanted  the  pattern  for  my  cap,"  she  said,  "the 
one  you  promised — "  She  was  looking  at  Nurse 
Timberlake. 

The  nurse  stood  up.  "I'll  send  it  to-night. 
Good-bye,  I  must  run  on  now — "  She  held  out 
her  hand. 

"John  will  bring  it,"  said  Mother.  "He's 
going  along  with  you — to  bring  it."  Nurse 
Timberlake's  face  had  flushed  a  little — its  easy 
flush.  Wallace  was  looking  at  her.  John,  who 
had  been  speaking  with  the  artist,  came  across — 
"All  ready  V  he  risked. 


298        THE  TASTE  OF  APPLES 

There  was  a  little  minute's  silence. 

"John's  ready,"  suggested  Mother. 

"I'm  going  with  Miss  Timberlake,"  said  Wal- 
lace. "I'll  bring  your  cap-pattern,  Mother." 
He  did  not  exactly  escort  Nurse  Timberlake 
from  the  room;  but  it  certainly  would  not  have 
been  easy  for  any  one  else  to  come  between  him 
and  his  purpose.  .  .  . 

Mother  looked  after  them,  with  a  little  mur- 
mur of  disappointment.  "Wallace  is  so 
auick — !"  she  said. 

"That's  why  you  like  him — isn't  it,  Mother?" 

She  cast  a  swift  look  at  John.  She  did  not 
want  John  to  be  unhappy.  "I  like  Wallace 
well  enough.  .  .  .  But  he  doesn't  know  every- 
thing!" 

John  laughed  out.  "I  have  an  idea  he  knows 
what  he  wants,"  he  said  easily. 

Mother  looked  at  him  again  and  she  looked 
at  the  portrait — where  she  sat,  erect  and  com- 
petent, in  her  bonnet — and  at  Anthony,  in  his 
shadowy  corner.  Then  she  looked  again  at 
John — "I  don't  believe  you'll  ever  get  mar- 


HER  PORTRAIT  299 

ried!"  she  said — "you're  too  much  like  him!" 
She  nodded  toward  the  portrait. 

John  smiled  a  little.  "Father  got  married — " 
he  said,  looking  at  it  affectionately. 

"Yes-s.  .  .  .     He  married  me " 

"I  wish  I  could  do  half  as  well,"  said  John. 

The  corners  of  her  mouth  smiled  a  little 

John  watched  them.  "Shall  I  tell  you  some- 
thing, Mother?" 

She  turned  her  face  on  him,  a  little  afraid 
and  hopeful — "It's  a  discovery  I've  made,"  said 
John. 

"Yes — *?"  She  glanced  hastily  at  the  art- 
ist— he  was  busy  with  brushes. 

"It's  about  women,"  said  John.  "Some- 
thing I've  found  out — if  you  want  them  to  like 
you,  don't  be  too  eager.  Isn't  that  so — *?"  He 
was  watching  her,  smiling.  "Isn't  that 
so 9" 

"Yes,  it's  so."  Mother's  face  lightened  a  lit- 
tle. "But  I  don't  know  how  you  found  it 
out — "  Then  she  sighed. 

"I've  lived  with  you,  Mother  and — "  he  hes- 


300         THE  TASTE  OF  APPLES 

itated.  "Never  mind!  I've  found  it  out  .  .  . 
and  I'm  not  being  too  eager.  But  some  day  we 
shall  see — !"  He  laughed  happily. 

Mother's  eyes  rested  on  him,  full  of  love — 
and  a  little  pity.  "You  come  home  to  supper 
with  me,"  she  said.  "I've  got  a  new  apple-pie 
for  supper — and  you  can  be  just  as  eager  with 
pie  as  you  want  to — I  guess." 


XXXVI 

WALLACE'S  SECRET 

WALLACE  came  up  the  seventy-three  steps,  two 
at  a  time — barely  stopping  for  an  answer  to  his 
quick  knock.  Mother  looked  up — she  was  put- 
ting tea  in  the  pot  and  she  set  it  down,  quickly. 
"John's  gone,"  she  said. 

"Has  he1?  I'm  sorry.  I  thought  I  might 
catch  him."  He  walked  over  by  the  bird- 
cage and  stood  looking  out  across  the  roofs.  His 
face  beamed  on  tiles  four  hundred  years  old. 
He  wheeled  about  and  smiled  at  her — "I've  got 
good  news!"  he  said. 

The  tea-pot  in  Mother's  hand  gave  a  little 
quick  twist.  She  set  it  down  again  on  the 
table— "Sit  down,  Wallace " 

He  moved  across  the  room — "I  can't  sit 
down,  Mother — I'm  too  happy!  She  is  the 
nicest  little  thing — isn't  she !" 

301 


302         THE  TASTE  OF  APPLES 

Mother's  face  stared — then  it  beamed — 
"Sit  down,  Wallace,  and  tell  me  all  about  her!" 
she  said. 

Wallace  laughed  out — "There's  nothing  to 
tell  you  about  her — that  you  don't  know." 

"You  mean — ?"  Mother's  wrinkles  were 
bent  on  him. 

He  nodded.  "On  the  way  home — I  took  my 
chance — in  a  'bus;  awful  jam — drivers  shout- 
ing and  tooting.  .  .  .  Nothing  very  romantic 
about  that,  I  can  tell  you !"  He  laughed  again. 

Mother  poured  out  a  cup  of  tea  and  handed  it 
to  him;  her  hand  was  shaking  a  little. 

Wallace  stopped  suddenly  and  looked  at  her 
— "You're  not  half  as  pleased  as  I  thought  you'd 
be,"  he  said. 

"I'm  kind  of  excited  about  it,  Wally — and — 
and  surprised,"  she  said  swiftly. 

"Surprised!  I  thought  everybody  knew. 
She  wasn't  surprised."  He  chuckled  a  little. 
"She  said  I'd  been  deliberate  enough  about  it — 
You  knew,  didn't  you?"  He  turned  to  look  at 
her. 


WALLACE'S  SECRET  303 

"Knew — ?"  faltered  Mother.  Her  glasses 
were  blinking  softly  at  him. 

"Knew  that  I  was  bowled  over — done 
up !" 

"Oh,  yes— I  knew  that." 

"Well,  that's  what  I  meant."  Wallace  took 
up  his  pie  happily. 

"I  didn't  know  just  how  she'd  feel  about  it," 
said  Mother.  "You  can't  always  tell  about 
women — how  they  feel." 

"You're  right — you  can't!"  laughed  Wallace. 
"I'd  have  spoken  months  ago  if  I'd  known!" 

"That  was  before  John  came,"  said  Mother 
quickly. 

" — The  first  day  I  saw  her!"  assented  Wal- 
lace— Then  he  stopped  and  flashed  a  look  at 
her.  "You're  not  worrying  about  him — ?"  he 
said. 

Mother's  face  grew  red.  "I  don't  know 
what  you're  talking  about,  Wally." 

Wallace's  eyes  studied  the  face — "I'd  forgot- 
ten about  that,"  he  said  softly. 

Mother's   figure   grew   very   dignified   in   its 


304         THE  TASTE  OF  APPLES 

plumpness.  "I've  never  seen  any  one  that  I 
thought  would  do  for  John!"  she  said. 

"My-my!"  said  Wallace.  Then  the  teasing 
tone  dropped.  "You  know  I  wouldn't  cut  in 
ahead  of  John — if  I  knew." 

Mother's  look  was  mollified.  "John  is  very 
particular!"  she  replied. 

Wallace  smiled.  "Only  the  best  for  John," 
he  assented.  "But  my  little  girl  will  do  for 


me!" 


Mother's  glance  rested  on  him.  "I  don't  see 
why  you  call  her  little,  Wally — she's  bigger 
than  me !" 

Wallace  smiled  at  her.  But  Mother  took  no 
heed.  " — I  thought  for  a  minute  you  must 
mean  somebody  else  when  you  called  her  a  lit- 
tle thing." 

"She  is  little,"  asserted  Wallace.  " — A  nice 
little  thing!  And  I'm  her  protector!" — he 
touched  his  chest  largely.  "I  am  the  big  man — 
that's  the  way  a  man  feels  about  his  wife, 
Mother;  he  wants  to  take  care  of  her  and  pro- 
tect her — and  provide  for  her " 


WALLACE'S  SECRET  305 

Mother  jumped  a  little.  She  got  up  and 
fussed  with  the  tea  things  and  sat  down.  "Will 
she  want  to  come  and  live  with  you,  Wally — do 
you  suppose*?" 

Wallace  stared.  "Why  shouldn't  she  want 
to  live  with  me*?" 

"Of  course  she'll  live  with  you — yes.  I  only 
thought — I  wondered — maybe  she  won't  want 
to  give  up " 

"Give  up  nursing?"  Wallace  laughed  out. 
"I  don't  think  there  will  be  any  trouble  about 
that.  Of  course  she  will  have  her  charity — 
and  her  allowance — I  shall  see  that  she  has  an 
allowance,  a  good  one,  for  charity."  Wallace's 
face  was  full  of  comfortable  assurance. 

Mother  stole  a  look  at  it — and  looked  in  her 
teacup — and  smiled.  "You'll  have  a  good 
many  things  to  learn,  won't  you,  Wally *?"  she 
said  quietly. 

"That's  the  nice  part  of  it,"  said  Wallace. 
He  leaned  toward  her.  "I  can't  tell  you, 
Mother,  how  it  makes  me  feel — to  have  some 
one  to  take  care  of — and  I  never  should  have 


306        THE  TASTE  OF  APPLES 

known  if  it  hadn't  been  for  you."  He  was  look- 
ing at  her. 

Mother's  eyes  blinked.  "I  know  you'll  be 
good  to  her,  Wally.  .  .  .  And  I  wouldn't  be 
too  much  disappointed — if  I  was  you — if  you 
can't  do  everything  for  her." 

"It  won't  be  my  fault  if  I  can't,"  said  Wal- 
lace. 

"I  know  that,  Wallace,"  said  Mother. 
"You've  been  real  good  to  me — you  couldn't 
have  been  better  if  you'd  been  my  own — Oh, 
dear  me!"  said  Mother,  and  suddenly  she  was 
rocking  and  sobbing  a  little.  .  .  .  And  Wal- 
lace comforted  her,  smiling  down  at  her  round- 
ness  and  wrinkles  and  tears. 


XXXVII 

ANTHONY    GOES    WITH    HIS    FRIEND 

"You'D  better  wear  your  second-best  one,"  she 
said. 

Anthony  looked  at  his  second-best  coat  and 
hung  it  up  again  on  its  nail.  "I  think  I'll  call 
this  my  second-best,"  he  said,  looking  down  at 
the  one  he  had  on  and  smoothing  it  a  little. 

Mother  examined  it  critically,  through  her 
glasses.  "It  seems  extravagant,"  she  said, 
"and  it  looks  like  rain — but,  of  course,  he's  a 
Lord.  .  .  .  You'll  have  to  buy  a  new  one,  for 
best,  if  you  take  to  wearing  this  one  common." 

"Yes." 

"It  will  cost  twenty-five  dollars,"  said 
Mother. 

Anthony  finished  tying  his  necktie.  "I  think 
John  likes  to  do  things  for  us,  Mother,"  he  said 
slowly.  "We  mustn't  disgrace  John " 

"You  couldn't  disgrace  anybody,  Anthony — 
307 


308         THE  TASTE  OF  APPLES 

no  matter  what  you  wore,"  said  Mother  stoutly. 
She  was  looking  at  him  thiough  her  round, 
proud  spectacles. 

"I  didn't  mean  disgrace  exactly,  Mother. 
I  think  the  boy  likes  to  do  it  for  us " 

"Of  course  he  does,"  said  Mother.  She 
sighed  a  little — "and  we  might  as  well  let  him 
— it's  the  only  comfort  he's  got  now " 

Anthony  made  no  reply.  They  had  gone 
over  the  whole  thing  the  night  before,  after  he 
came  in,  sitting  up  till  nearly  twelve  o'clock. 
They  had  gone  over  everything  from  the  be- 
ginning— the  kind  of  socks  John  wore  when  he 
was  a  baby — and  John  at  play  and  John  at 
school — and  Mother  had  wept  softly,  and  An- 
thony had  comforted  her  the  best  he  could. 
He  could  not,  somehow,  quite  fancy  that 
John's  life  was  entirely  blighted — there  must 
still  be  comfort  in  life  for  a  man  with  John's 
appetite.  But  Mother  had  found  no  solace  in 
John's  appetite.  "I've  never  seen  anybody  I'd 
want  him  to  marry,  before,"  she  had  said,  weep- 
ing a  little. 


ANTHONY  GOES  309 

"I've  never  felt  so  sure  that  John  wanted 
to,"  said  Anthony.  His  tone  was  thoughtful. 
He  had  come,  in  these  days  in  London,  to  have 
a  new  sense  of  his  son — a  sense  of  a  quiet,  mas- 
terful force  that  took  what  it  wanted  without 
hurry  and  without  doubt.  "I  think  if  John  had 
wanted  her,  he  would  have  had  her,"  he  said. 

But  Mother  set  it  aside  uncomforted.  "Men 
don't  know  everything — Men  don't  know  what 
they  want,"  she  had  replied.  And  it  proved  to 
be  the  last  word  spoken. 

She  surveyed  him  now  with  tolerant  eyes, 
turning  him  about,  brushing  off  invisible  specks. 
"You'll  want  to  take  your  umbrella,"  she  said, 
"and  don't  stay  too  long — talking.  You'll 
have  plenty  of  chances  to  talk — about  every- 
thing there  is  to  talk  about." 

There  was  a  knock  at  the  door,  and  Mother 
opened  it  and  came  back.  "It's  a  telegram," 
she  said.  She  held  it  out  stiffly  to  Anthony  and 
waited.  She  had  never  got  used  to  telegrams 
— though  Wallace  had  tried  faithfully  to  train 
her,  sending  her  three  in  one  day  to  get  her  ac- 


310         THE  TASTE  OF  APPLES 

customed  to  the  uniformed,  monkey-capped  boy 
and  the  brown  envelope. 

Anthony  opened  it  slowly  and  laid  it  down, 
and  groped  a  little  for  something.  She  put  his 
umbrella  in  his  hand.  "What  does  it  say?"  she 
asked. 

"It's — an  accident,"  said  Anthony.  He 
gathered  up  the  paper  and  put  it  in  his  pocket. 
"It's  lucky  I  was  going — they  want  me " 

"Is  it— the  Lord?"  asked  Mother. 

"Yes."  His  fingers  reached  blindly  to  some- 
thing. 

"You've  got  your  umbrella — here,"  said 
Mother.  "Now  don't  you  go  to  getting  upset, 
Anthony."  She  looked  at  him.  .  .  .  "You 
don't  think  I'd  better  go  with  you?" 

"No."  He  bent  and  kissed  her  and  went  out. 
The  paper  in  his  pocket  had  told  him  more  than 
he  revealed  to  Mother — and  Anthony  went  fast. 

The  heavy  door  opened  to  him,  before  he 
touched  it. 

"This  way,  sir,"  said  the  man.  "We  have 
muffled  the  bell.  .  ." 


ANTHONY  GOES  311 

There  was  no  sound  in  the  great  house.  The 
sun  poured  down  through  the  staircase  window 
and  lay  in  spots  on  the  stairs  and  rug.  .  .  .  "If 
you  will  wait  here  a  minute  Miss  Timberlake 
will  see  you,"  said  the  man. 

She  came  in  quietly  without  her  nursing  cap 
and  apron.  "We  came  this  morning — Sister 
and  I.  They  sent  us  word — yes.  The  accident 
was  yesterday — coming  down  from  Thurlow. 
No  one  knows — it  does  not  matter  how  it  hap- 
pened— now.  .  .  .  He  is  not  suffering — no. 
They  have  given  him  something.  ..."  She 
led  the  way  up  the  stairs  to  a  door  and  opened 
it  softly. 

"Mr.  Wickham  has  come,  Cousin  Thurlow," 
she  said,  bending  over  him. 

And  the  man  put  out  a  hand  and  groped — 
"Sit  down,"  he  said. 

The  nurse  moved  a  little  away.  Lord 
Raleigh  pushed  up  the  bandage  from  his  eyes. 
"I  can't  see  very  well,"  he  said.  "They  have 
done  me  up — Sit  down." 

There    was   silence    in    the    room.     Anthony 


312         THE  TASTE  OF  APPLES 

waited  quietly.  Presently  the  man  spoke — "It 
was  my  machine — "  he  said,  "I — always  knew 
— it  would — end  me."  He  smiled,  under  the 
bandage.  "We  talked  about  that " 

"We've  talked  about  a  great  many  things," 
said  Anthony.  He  was  going  with  the  man — 
through  the  portal,  along  an  unknown  road. 
They  both  knew.  There  was  nothing  to  say. 
But  Anthony  would  go  with  him — to  the 
Gate.  .  .  .  "I'm  glad  you've  come,"  he  said, 
and  dozed  a  little,  with  the  drug,  and  woke  and 
spoke  to  the  nurse  and  she  moved  to  him  quickly. 

"Take  it  off,"  he  said — he  put  up  a  hand — 
"It  doesn't  matter  now." 

The  nurse  removed  the  bandage  with  deft 
fingers,  and  the  face  lay  against  the  pillow — a 
carved  face,  touched  with  the  coming  immortal 
look. 

Anthony's  eyes  rested  on  it,  and  the  eyes 
looked  out  at  him — and  went  down — down — 
and  flickered,  and  the  nurse  pressed  her  hand 
upon  them.  She  looked  at  Anthony  and  he 
stood  up — groping.  .  .  .  The  man  who  un- 
derstood him  was  not  there  now. 


XXXVIII 

A    CABLE    AND    APPLE-PIE    FOR    JOHN 

JOHN  came  in,  and  looked  at  Mother  doubtfully, 
and  crossed  the  room.  Mother  seemed  not  to 
notice.  She  went  on  with  her  baking.  She 
was  very  considerate  of  John,  these  days.  He 
opened  his  lips,  and  moved  about  a  little  and 
seemed  about  to  say  something,  and  changed  his 
mind. 

"I  met  Miss  Timberlake  on  the  stairs  as  I 
came  up,"  he  said  at  last. 

"I  wondered  if  you'd  meet  her,"  said  Mother. 
"She  was  here  quite  a  spell." 

"She's  going  back  to  Thurlow,  she  says *?" 

"Yes — "  Mother  waited.  "Do  you  think 
Wallace  knows  yet*?"  she  asked. 

"He  doesn't  guess,"  said  John.  "He  thinks 
she  went  to  Thurlow  and  to  the  funeral  as  a 
nurse  or  something." 

Mother  smiled.  "I've  'most  thought  perhaps 
313 


THE  TASTE  OF  APPLES 

he'd  break  it  off — when  he  knows — "  She  was 
watching  John — but  he  seemed  unmoved. 

"Wally  is  not  a  fool,"  he  said. 

"He  isn't  a  fool  exactly,"  said  Mother. 
"But  he  would  hate — terribly — to  marry  a  rich 
wife." 

"There's  no  disgrace  in  a  rich  wife — if  you 
love  her,"  said  John  quickly. 

"I  didn't  mean  anything  in  particular,  John," 
said  Mother — soothingly.  "But  Wally's  al- 
ways said  it's  the  one  thing  he  wouldn't  do — 
he  told  me,  one  day,  he  wouldn't  ever  be  a  post- 
script to  a  rich  wife — and  he'll  hate  it  terribl)'-. 
And  I  don't  blame  him — I  shouldn't  want  you 
to  marry  any  one  that  was  too  important."  She 
looked  at  him  affectionately  and  pityingly. 

John  returned  the  look — and  opened  his  mouth 
and  shut  it,  and  went  and  stood  by  the  window 
with  his  back  to  the  room.  .  .  .  "There's 
something  I've  been  thinking  about,  Mother,"  he 
said  slowly. 

Mother  was  half-way  into  her  kitchen — she 
looked  back  hastily — "Wait  a  minute,  John,  till 


A  CABLE  AND  APPLE-PIE       315 

I  take  out  my  pie."  She  came  back  presently 
with  a  flushed  face.  "It  'most  burned,"  she 
said. 

"Should  you  mind  going  home,  Mother1?" 
said  John  abruptly.  He  had  faced  about  and 
was  looking  at  her. 

"Right  off?"  said  Mother. 

"Within  a  week  or  so " 

She  beamed  on  him.  She  looked  about  the 
little  room — "I  could  be  ready  to-morrow!"  she 
said. 

"You  wouldn't  mind*?"  asked  John. 

"Mind !"  said  Mother.  She  looked  about  the 
room  again — almost  as  if  it  were  a  secret,  and 
London  might  not  let  her  off. 

"I  should  love  to  go!"  she  said.  She  drew  a 
long  breath.  "I'll  go  now  and  begin  to  pack 
up;  but  the  washing  won't  be  back — not  till  to- 
morrow." 

John  laughed.  "There's  no  such  a  hurry, 
you  know.  I  have  to  wait — for  a  cable " 

"Is  it  business?"  she  asked. 

"Yes-s — a  kind  of  business.     I  can't  tell  you 


316         THE  TASTE  OF  APPLES 

yet,  Mother.  ...  I  only  thought  I'd  see  how 
you  felt — if  I  should  have  to  go." 

"You  needn't  think  about  me,  John — nor 
about  your  father.  I'll  be  glad  to  get  him  away. 
He  hasn't  been  the  same " 

"No — I  know.  But  you  don't  need  to  go 
back.  You  and  he  could  go  on  to  the  Conti- 


nent- 


"Alone!"  said  Mother. 
"You  could  have  a  courier- 


"I  don't  want  it — "  said  Mother.  "I  don't 
know  just  what  a  courier  is — but  I  don't  want 
it,  anyway — I'd  rather  go  home " 

"Well,  you  shall  go — if  I  do,"  said  John. 
He  took  up  his  hat.  "I'll  look  in  later  and  tell 
you."  And  he  was  gone. 

Mother  disappeared  into  the  bedroom  and  got 
down  on  her  knees  and  pulled  out  trunks  and 
boxes  and  began  packing — a  round,  tremulous 
smile  on  her  face. 

Anthony  came  and  found  her  there,  and  looked 
quietly  down  at  the  confusion.  "Cleaning 
house*?"  he  asked. 


A  CABLE  AND  APPLE-PIE       317 

Mother  looked  up  and  blinked.  "We're  go- 
ing home,  Anthony!"  The  canary  in  his  win- 
dow heard  it  and  trilled  a  little. 

Anthony  smiled.  "I  hadn't  heard  about  it," 
he  said. 

She  got  up  from  her  knees,  dusting  them  off 
softly.  "You  want  your  dinner,  don't  you?  I 
declare,  I  forgot  it!"  She  bustled  out  into  the 
other  room,  hurrying  happily  back  and  forth. 

"It  'most  makes  me  cry — I'm  so  happy!"  she 
said.  "I  did  cry  a  little — after  John  went. 
But  it  hindered  the  packing " 

"John's  been  here,  has  he?"  said  Anthony. 

"He  came  in — all  worked  up — and  fussed 
and  fidgeted;  and  finally  he  got  it  out — that 
he  wants  to  go  home.  I  told  him  I'd  go  to 
morrow!"  Mother  beamed. 

"What's  happened?"  said  Anthony. 

Mother  looked  at  him.  ...  "I  guess  we 
know  what's  happened,  Anthony." 

"Do  we?"  Anthony  returned  the  look,  puz- 
zled. 

Mother  nodded  with  deep  significance. 


3i8         THE  TASTE  OF  APPLES 

"He  told  you,  then*?"  said  Anthony. 

"I  didn't  need  any  telling,"  said  Mother. 
"He  said  it  was  business,  and  he'd  have  a  cable 
to-day — but  7  knew  well  enough  what  he  meant 
by  a  cable!  John's  heart  is  broke! — that's 
what's  happened !" 

"Why — Mother!"  Anthony  smiled  a  little 
and  took  his  cup  and  stirred  it  thought- 
fully— "You  think  John  is  running  off  home  be- 
cause  " 

"You  don't  need  to  say  it  that  way,  Anthony! 
Of  course,  he'll  go  in  a  boat!  You  say  'run- 
ning off  home' — just  as  if " 

"Just  as  if  he  was  a  coward!"  said  Anthony 
quietly. 

"Well — something  like  that.  It  makes  him 
sound  ridiculous!"  said  Mother  sternly. 

"John  won't  be  ridiculous,"  said  Anthony. 

"That's  what  I  meant !"  said  Mother.  "You 
don't  need  to  tell  me  that  John  Wickham  won't 
be  ridiculous — He's  coming  now!" 

The  door  opened  and  John  came  in.  He  was 
smiling.  He  came  across  and  kissed  his  mother 


A  CABLE  AND  APPLE-PIE       319 

and  sat  down.  "Just  in  time  for  lunch! — Any- 
thing left?" 

Anthony  passed  him  a  plate  and  Mother  went 
into  her  kitchen.  She  came  back  laden  with 
good  things. 

Anthony  looked  at  them  quietly.  "It  pays 
to  come  late,"  he  said. 

"I  thought  maybe  John  would  be  here — or 
Wally,"  said  Mother.  She  set  down  the  good 
things  in  front  of  him — her  face  round  with 
questions,  but  in  silence.  John  helped  himse;f. 

"You're  ready  to  go,  I  suppose,"  he  said  cas- 
ually. 

Mother  looked  up — "I've  begun  to  pack,"  she 
said. 

"Everything  in  but  her  toothbrush,"  said  An- 
thony. 

"Did — your  cable — come4?"  asked  Mother 
innocently.  She  had  a  warning  eye  on  An- 
thony. 

"Yes."  There  was  silence  in  the  room — and 
the  canary  cocked  his  eye  at  the  silent  table, 
singing  hard.  .  .  . 


320         THE  TASTE  OF  APPLES 

John  took  a  bit  of  paper  from  his  pocket  and 
handed  it  across  to  Mother. 

She  looked — and  her  fingers  fussed  at  it,  and 
then  she  looked  at  him — and  at  Anthony,  sig- 
nificantly. .  .  .  "It  just  says  'Yes.'  I  sup- 
pose that  means  we'll  go?"  she  said  slowly. 

"It  means  we'll  go,"  said  John.  He  laughed 
out,  looking  at  her.  "It  means  you'll  have  a 
new  daughter,  Mother!" 

The  canary  trilled  a  whole  roulade,  filling  the 
notes  with  light  .  .  .  and  Mother  looked  at 
John  through  the  whirl  of  them — "What  did 
you  say — John4?" 

Anthony  was  smiling  at  her  gently.  Her 
son  got  up  and  came  over  and  kissed  her — 
"That's  what  it  means,  Mother — that  Kitty  Ar- 
den  says  'yes' !" 

"I  don't  know  any  Kitty  Arden — "  said 
Mother  helplessly.  .  .  . 

"She's  your  daughter,"  said  John.  "But  it 
was  a  close  call." 

"I  thought  it  was  a  cable,"  said  Mother. 


A  CABLE  AND  APPLE-PIE       321 

"So  it  was — at  last!"  laughed  John.  "She 
hated  to  say  it !"  He  looked  at  the  cable  a  lit- 
tle fondly  and  proudly. 

"You  mean  she  didn't  want  to  marry  you — !" 
said  Mother,  looking  up  at  him,  indignation  in 
all  her  roundness. 

He  nodded.  "Hated  to — the  worst  way!" 
He  laughed  out.  "I  had  to  run  off  first — before 
she  found  out."  Mother  glanced  at  Anthony. 
"I've  engaged  passage  for  Wednesday — will 
you  be  ready  *?"  added  John. 

"I'm  most  ready  now,"  said  Mother.  But 
she  was  looking  at  him  wistfully.  "It  seems 
queer,  that  you're  going  to  marry — some  one  I 
never  saw — "  she  said. 

He  patted  the  shoulder.  "She's  nicer  than 
any  one  you  ever  saw,  Mother — and  a  world  too 
good  for  me,"  he  added  quickly.  "And  I'm  go- 
ing to  marry  her  before  she  has  time  to  change 
her  mind — again." 

Mother  gasped  a  little — and  he  laughed  down 
at  her. 


322         THE  TASTE  OF  APPLES 

"She's  all  right,  Mother.  You'll  like  her— 
even  better  than — Nurse  Timberlake."  He 
bent  and  kissed  her  again,  and  was  off. 

Anthony  smiled  at  her.  She  wiped  away  the 
little  tear — and  looked  at  him  almost  guiltily. 

"How  do  you  suppose  he  guessed  about  Nurse 
Timberlake  ?"  she  asked. 


XXXIX 

MOTHER    PACKS    HER    TRUNK 

THE  packing  went  forward  rapidly.  Wallace 
coming  in  found  Mother  sitting  on  top  of  next- 
to-the-last  trunk,  pressing  it  firmly  down.  "It's 
packed  pretty  full,"  she  said  beaming  on  him 
and  drawing  a  deep  breath.  "It  needs  two " 

She  moved  a  little  to  one  side,  and  Wallace  sat 
on  it  with  her,  and  helped  her  strap  it,  and  she 
brought  out  the  piece  of  pie.  "You  will  miss 
us,  won't  you,  Wally,"  she  said,  watching  him. 
"And  I  don't  suppose  you'll  ever  be  coming  over 
home  either — "  she  looked  at  him  wistfully. 

Wallace  shook  his  head — "Don't  want  to  go 
back — except  to  see  you.  Old  England's  good 
enough  for  me!" 

"Yes — I  know  you  like  it.  It's  lucky  about 
your  wives,  isn't  it*?" 

He  looked  at  her 

"Yours  and  John's — letting  you  live  where 
323 


324         THE  TASTE  OF  APPLES 

you  want  to — both  of  you.  .  .  .  You  didn't 
ever  see  her,  did  you?"  she  asked  suddenly,  look- 
ing at  him. 

"Her ?" 

Mother  nodded — "John's  wife,   you  know." 

Wallace  laughed.  "You  get  on  so  fast — 
with  your  wives,  Mother!  Yes,  I've  seen  her. 
I  used  to  see  Kitty  Arden  rather  often." 

Mother's  face  lighted.  "What  is  she  like, 
Wally*?  I  can't  get  anything  out  of  John — 
not  anything  sensible." 

"She's  the  prettiest  girl  you  ever  saw,"  said 
Wallace. 

"Prettier  than  Nurse  Timberlake?'  asked 
Mother,  guileless. 

"Much!"     Wallace  was  serene. 

Mother  looked  at  him  with  reproach  in  her 
cap.  "You  hadn't  ought  to  say  that,  Wal- 
lace!" 

"It's  the  truth,"  said  Wallace.  He  looked  at 
the  last  piece  of  pie  and  took  it.  "There  are  a 
good  many  men  would  have  liked  to  marry  Kitty 
Arden,"  he  said  slowly. 


MOTHER  PACKS  HER  TRUNK    325 

"I  hope  she'll  make  a  good  sensible  wife  for 
John,"  said  Mother. 

"You  aren't  afraid  of  any  one  that  John  picks 
out,  are  you — ?"  His  eyes  were  twinkling  at 
her. 

"Not — exactly,"  said  Mother. 

"You  needn't  be  afraid  for  Kitty,"  said  Wal- 
lace. "She  has  kept  her  head  level  through 
things  that  would  have  spoiled  a  good  many 
girls — with  all  that  money " 

Mother  looked  at  him — "What  did  you  say, 
Wally?" 

"I  said  that  with  all  the  money  she's  had  to 
spend — and  no  mother " 

"John  told  me  her  mother  was  dead — but  he 
didn't  tell  me  about  the  money " 

Wallace  chuckled.  "She's  one  of  the  richest 
girls  in  the  States."  He  was  watching  Mother's 
face.  "Her  father  is  John  Arden,  of  the  United 
Steel  and  Wire,  you  know." 

"He  said  his  name  was  John,"  said  Mother. 

"Worth  millions,"  said  Wallace. 

"Oh,  dear!"     Mother's  face  had  grown  full 


326         THE  TASTE  OF  APPLES 

of  round  woe — "How  can  I  visit  'em,  Wally, 
and  take  care  of  the  babies  if  they  have — a 
million  dollars!" 

"Million-dollar  babies  have  tummies,  don't 
they,  Mother — same  as  dollar-ones'?  I  guess 
you  can  coddle  'em  all  right.  They'll  have 
rows  of  nurse-maids  in  white  caps,  of  course," 
said  Wallace  wickedly.  "But  you'll  find  it's  all 
right.  I  shouldn't  want  a  rich  wife  myself " 

"When  did  you  see  Nurse  Timberlake*?"  said 
Mother  swiftly. 

He  stared  at 'her — "I  believe  you're  jealous 
for  her!  ...  I  haven't  seen — Alicia" — he 
said  the  name  happily — "I  haven't  seen  her — 
since  Wednesday.  She's  up  at  Thurlow,  you 
know." 

"I  knew  she'd  gone  to  Thurlow,"  said 
Mother.  Her  tone  was  mysterious. 

He  looked  at  her.     "What  do  you  mean4?" 

Mother  shook  her  head.     "Nothing!" 

"You  know  better — you've  got  something  on 
your  mind " 

"Well — you      kept      saying      things      about 


MOTHER  PACKS  HER  TRUNK    327 

John!"  Mother  looked  at  him,  her  feathers 
ruffled. 

"I  didn't  say  anything  about  John — except 
that  Kitty  is  rich." 

"She  doesn't  own  a  castle — "  said  Mother. 
"I'm  not  going  to  say  another  word,"  she  shut 
her  mouth,  squeezing  it  tight. 

Wallace  looked  at  her  narrowly — "Go  ahead !" 
he  said. 

But  she  shook  her  head  hard.  "It  isn't  your 
fault,  Wally — and  I  shan't  say  a  word /" 

Wallace  looked  up.  Anthony  had  come  in 
and  was  smiling  at  them,  quietly.  "Anything 
wrong  *?"  he  asked. 

"Suppose  you  tell  me  what  Mother  means," 
said  Wallace.  "I  just  happened  to  say  some- 
thing about  Kitty  Arden  and  she's  bristling  with 
hints " 

"What  did  you  say  about  Kitty?"  asked  An- 
thony. 

"That  she's  rich — you  knew  that." 

"Yes,  John  told  me " 

"And  I  said  folks  that  live  in  glass  houses 


328         THE  TASTE  OF  APPLES 

better  be  careful,"  said  Mother,  still  myste- 
rious—"That's  all  I  said." 

Wallace  turned  to  Anthony  .  .  .*? 

Anthony  smiled.  "That's  what  Mother 
means,  I  guess,  Wallace." 

And  between  them  Wallace  Tilton  learned — 
a  word  at  a  time  from  Anthony,  with  breath- 
less gusts  from  Mother — Wallace  learned  the 
truth.  .  .  .  He  turned  it  slowly  in  his 
mind 

"Serves  me  right!"  he  said. 

"It  isn't  your  fault,  Wally!  I  told  you  it 
wasn't  your  fault!"  said  Mother  consolingly. 

Wallace  laughed  shortly  and  got  up.  "Well, 
I  must  be  off — to  Thurlow  Castle!"  he  said. 
"I  shall  have  a  word  to  say  to  Miss  Alicia  Tim- 
berlake!"  He  bent  and  kissed  Mother,  and 
looked  down  at  her  gently  and  kissed  her  again — 
"It's  all  your  fault,"  he  said.  "I  shouldn't 
have  thought  of  marrying  her  if  it  hadn't  been 
for  you — and  your  pies!"  And  he  was  gone. 

Mother  looked  at  the  door  wistfully — almost 
regretfully — and  went  back  to  her  packing. 


MOTHER  PACKS  HER  TRUNK    329 

"Talking  that  way  about  John!"  she  said  softly 
into  the  depths  of  the  trunk. 

She  lifted  her  head  suddenly.  "Do  rich  folks 
always  have  nurse-maids  in  caps — rows  of  them, 
Anthony1?" 

"Rows  of  them — in  caps'?"  Anthony's  mind 
went  slowly. 

Mother  nodded.  "To  take  care  of  the 
babies?" 

Anthony  smiled.  "I  guess  they  do — when 
they  have  the  babies.  They  don't  all  of  'em 
have  babies,  you  know !" 

Mother  returned  to  her  trunk.  "John  will," 
she  said  softly  again  in  the  depths. 

Anthony  came  to  the  door  and  looked  in  at 
her.  "I'm  going  out  a  little  while,"  he  said. 

Mother  emerged — "Where  you  going1?"  she 
asked. 

"Just  anywhere — on  a  'bus — perhaps — "  An- 
thony's tone  was  vague. 

Mother  looked  at  her  second-best  bonnet,  and 
turned  it  round.  She  had  been  trying  to  find  a 
place  for  it — a  safe  place.  She  put  it  on  her 


330         THE  TASTE  OF  APPLES 

head.     "I  think  I'll  go  with  with  you,"  she  said. 

Anthony  glanced  at  the  trunk — "You  haven't 
time,  have  you*?" 

"I'm  packed — all  but  this.  Maybe  I  shall 
carry  it  in  my  hand,  anyway,  in  a  box — "  She 
tied  the  strings  elaborately  under  her  chin, 
looking  at  her  roundness  in  the  glass.  "I  feel 
kind  of  queer,  somehow,"  she  said  slowly. 
"I've  been  wanting  to  go — seemed  as  if  I  couldn't 
wait  to  go;  and  now  the  time's  come,  I  feel  as 
if  I  didn't  want  to — not  exactly." 

"We  can  stay — "  said  Anthony. 

"Oh — I  don't  mean  that — "  said  Mother  has- 
tily. .  .  .  "But  it  seems  as  if  I'd  ought  to  have 
seen  more — paid  more  attention  perhaps.  I  feel 
real  queer  about  it !"  She  put  on  her  gloves  and 
took  up  her  net-bag.  "I'm  ready,"  she  an- 
nounced. 

"Go  where  there's  a  crowd,"  she  said — "any- 
where the  crowd  is.  That's  the  most  like  Lon- 
don." 

"We'll  take  No.  6,"  said  Anthony. 

It  was  coming  rapidly  down  the  street,  and  he 


MOTHER  PACKS  HER  TRUNK    331 

hailed  it  and  Mother  scrambled  aboard,  breath- 
less. 

She  gave  a  little  triumphant  nod  as  they 
mounted  to  the  top — "That's  one  of  the  things 
I've  got  so  I  can  do,"  she  said  seating  herself 
firmly.  "I  can  get  on  and  off  while  they're  go- 
ing— pretty  fast.  I  used  to  be  real  mad  when 
they  didn't  stop.  Now  I  don't  wait  to  be  mad 
— I  just  climb  on!" 

Anthony  laughed.  "We've  learned  a  good 
many  things  in  London — "  he  said  musingly. 

"You  have,"  said  Mother.  She  looked  up  at 
him  a  little  wistfully.  "It  doesn't  seem  as  if 
I'd  learned  much — just  how  to  get  on  a  'bus!" 

"There  are  people  who  have  lived  in  London 
all  their  lives  who  can't  do  it,"  said  Anthony 
consolingly. 

"Do  you  think  so?"  Mother  brightened. 
She  beamed  down  on  the  crowd  from  her  'bus. 
"I  most  wish  we'd  stayed  longer,"  she  said. 
"I'm  getting  kind  o'  used  to  it,  I  guess — Look 
how  queer  they  be,  Anthony — all  running  every 
which  way!" 


332         THE  TASTE  OF  APPLES 

Anthony  leaned  over  beside  her  and  they 
watched  the  crowd — down  the  Strand,  along 
by  the  Lions  and  Trafalgar  Square  and  Pall 
Mall,  up  Regent  Street  and  Piccadilly  and  the 
Circus  and  Oxford.  .  .  .  The  city  played  its 
game  of  darting  crowds  and  cabs  and  'buses 
and  tangled  life,  and  Mother  looked  down  on 
them — half -guiltily,  half-wistfully — her  face 
screwed  in  its  soft  wrinkles. 

"It  does  make  my  head  whirl !"  she  said.  "I 
keep  wondering  where  they're  all  going  to — and 
what  they're  after! — Look  at  that  old  thing, 
Anthony!"  Mother  pointed  out  the  broad- 
backed,  broad-skirted  figure  that  ambled  with 
the  crowd,  her  bonnet  askew  and  her  skirts  tilt- 
ing over  the  shabby,  run-over  shoes  and  gaping 
stocking-heels.  Mother  looked  down  on  them 
— incredulity  in  her  face.  "Wouldn't  you 
think  she'd  just  want  to  cry,  Anthony!" 

Anthony  watched  the  waddling  figure,  with 
his  little,  gentle  smile — "You're  the  one  that 
wants  to  cry,  I  guess,  Mother.  She  looks  pretty 


MOTHER  PACKS  HER  TRUNK    333 

comfortable — as  if  she  enjoyed  carrying  her 
taper — "  he  added  softly. 

"Carrying  her  what,  Anthony*? — You  must 
shout  louder  up  here." 

"I  said  carrying  her  taper,"  said  Anthony. 
And  the  'bus  lurched  and  stopped  and  the  words 
roared  themselves  out 

"Sh'h !"  said  Mother.  "Mercy !  everybody'll 
hear  us !" 

But  no  one  seemed  to  care.  Passengers 
climbed  down  and  new  ones  climbed  up,  and 
the  traffic  roared. 

"They  all  seem  to  be  carrying  tapers — don't 
you  see1?"  said  Anthony  looking  down — "little 
tapers " 

Mother  leaned  further  over — "I  don't  see  any- 
thing that  looks  like  a  taper — or  any  kind  of 
light,"  she  said. 

Anthony  smiled.  "They're  not  in  sight — 
they're  far  inside  somewhere — little  tapers  of 
life — and  they  carry  them  carefully — every  one 
guarding  his  own  and  feeding  it — fighting  for 


334         THE  TASTE  OF  APPLES 

it  ...  and  nobody  knows  why — only  he 
mustn't  let  the  fire  go  out.  .  .  ." 

Mother  looked  at  him  uneasily — Anthony  had 
not  had  a  queer  spell  for  weeks 

"They  look  to  me  just  like  folks  hurrying  to 
get  somewhere,"  she  said  practically.  "And 
that  old  woman  with  no  stockings  on — hardly — 
ought  to  be  shut  up !" 

Anthony  smiled  at  her — "Just  think  how  she 
keeps  her  taper  burning! — in  all  that  dark,"  he 
said  softly.  "She  is  a  brave  soul — I  think " 

Mother  said  nothing.  But  deep  thoughts 
held  her.  It  was  time  they  went  home!  She 
was  glad  they  were  going  home.  .  .  .  Perhaps 
when  they  got  back  to  Bolton  Anthony  would 
forget  London  and  queerness — and  old  women, 
with  no  stockings  hardly,  carrying  their  tapers 
carefully  along  on  Oxford  Street. 


XL 

THE     SHOP     WHERE     NOTHING    HAPPENS 

FAT  SAMUEL  puffed  a  little  and  sighed,  and 
reached  out  for  another  pair  and  looked  at  them 
scornfully  and  fell  to  work  with  waxed  thread. 
It  had  not  been  easy  for  Samuel  to  keep  pace 
with  the  feet  of  Bolton.  He  had  come  to 
look  suspiciously  at  feet  on  the  street;  and  he 
grudged  the  children  their  very  skipping-ropes 
and  hop-scotch — wearing  out  good  leather! 
He  drew  the  waxed  thread  wrathfully  in  and 
out  and  scowled  at  the  window  where  the 
sun  played  along  cobwebs  and  made  little  dusty, 
dancing  motes  and  fell  on  the  empty  bench  across 
the  room.  There  were  shoes  on  the  bench,  shoes 
on  the  floor — shoes  everywhere.  .  .  .  The  door 
gave  a  little  click  and  tingle,  and  swung  open 
and  Samuel  looked  up  and  scowled — and 
changed  to  a  slow,  long,  doubtful  gaze — a  sweet, 
fat  smile  that  broke  through  the  gloom. 

335 


336         THE  TASTE  OF  APPLES 

Anthony  stood  looking  at  him  and  at  the  shop 
— at  the  dust  and  cobwebs,  and  the  shoes  on  the 
floor.  He  came  over  and  held  out  his  hand. 

And  Samuel's  took  it,  doubtingly,  and  rubbed 
along  his  apron,  and  his  mouth  came  together. 
"I  didn't  know  you'd  got  here,"  he  said. 

"Came  last  night,"  said  Anthony.  "Plenty 
of  work,  I  see — "  He  nodded  at  the  chaos  of 
shoes. 

"Too  much  for  me!"  grumbled  Samuel.  He 
took  up  his  stiff  thread  and  fell  to  work,  with  a 
covert  eye  on  Anthony  Wickham.  He  had  heard 
rumours  of  London  and  of  Anthony 

Anthony  took  off  his  hat  and  coat  slowly  and 
hung  them  up,  his  glance  taking  in  with  a  smile 
the  old,  worn  bits  of  leather  and  the  clutter  on 
the  floor.  He  tied  on  the  striped  apron  and 
crossed  to  his  bench;  and  took  up  a  pair  and 
looked  at  them  and  looked  over  his  glasses  at 
Samuel — "Judge  Fox's  best?"  he  said. 

Samuel  nodded.  "I  put  off  best  ones,"  he 
said.  "I  can't  do  'em!"  He  scowled  fiercely, 
and  stabbed  holes  and  sewed  on. 


THE  SHOP  337 

Anthony  blew  a  little  dust  from  the  boots 
and  set  them  aside;  his  thin  fingers  sorted  the 
pairs  on  the  bench  and  reached  to  the  floor, 
and  ranged  them  along  before  him.  .  .  .  "I'll 
do  the  fine  ones  first,"  he  said  softly. 

A  look  of  fat  relief  stole  into  Samuel's  face  and 
spread  above  the  waxed  ends.  "I've  done  my 
best  on  'em,"  he  grunted,  "worked  myself  to  the 
bone  with  'em!" 

Anthony's  smile  flitted  across  the  bulk  of  Sam- 
uel, and  drew  in  the  room.  "You've  done  first- 
rate,  Samuel.  It's  hard  work — doing  shoes 
alone." 

Samuel's  gaze  relaxed  subtly.  The  shop  was 
not  the  same — there  were  shoes  on  the  floor,  but 
they  were  hopeful  shoes;  and  the  children  skip- 
ping outside  and  calling  to  each  other,  sounded 
happy.  .  .  .  The  door  tingled  and  opened  and 
a  little  girl  peeped  in  and  held  out  a  pair  of 
shoes — and  Samuel  smiled  at  her  and  she  dropped 
them  hastily  and  withdrew. 

Anthony  picked  them  up — "Joe  Gibson's,"  he 
said.  .  .  .  The  school  bell  rang  and  jangled 


338         THE  TASTE  OF  APPLES 

and  the  voices  calling  outside  died  away.  .  .  . 
Anthony  fell  to  work — the  same  old  stitching, 
gentle  rhythm,  tap-a-peg ,  tap-a-peg,  tap-tap- 
tap 

The  bell  above  the  door  jingled — all  Bolton 
had  heard  that  Anthony  Wickham  was  back — 
all  day  they  came.  ...  It  was  the  same  An- 
thony Wickham  who  had  gone  away — less  than 
a  year  ago — yet  somehow  a  subtly  different  An- 
thony. You  have  to  look  a  little  at  a  man  who 
has  been  in  London  a  year — nearly  a  year.  .  .  . 
And  they  looked  at  him  curiously,  and  brought 
him  shoes — and  left  them. 

Each  time  the  bell  tingled,  more  shoes  lay 
heaped  on  the  floor.  After  dinner  there  was  a 
little  lull  and  Samuel  and  Anthony  sewed  and 
pegged  in  silence.  It  was  the  same  old  shop, 
where  nothing  happened.  Only  Anthony,  with 
England  behind  him  and  the  roar  of  London 
coming  and  going  gently  in  his  thought,  was  per- 
haps a  little  different;  but  the  same  sunshine  was 
on  the  floor,  the  same  dusty  motes  danced  above 


THE  SHOP  339 

it,  and  the  same  shreds  of  leather  and  waxed 
ends  lay  everywhere. 

The  door  opened  tremulously,  and  gasped  a 
little  and  stood  still,  and  Anthony  looked  up. 
"Why,  Mother!" 

"It's  come!"  she  said.  She  held  out  the  en- 
velope. "It's  come.  I  knew  it  would — ,  but 
somehow  I  didn't  quite — expect  it."  She  sat 
down  breathless. 

Anthony  took  the  envelope  and  opened  it  and 
looked  at  her  over  his  glasses.  "They'll  be 
here  to-night.  That's  good,  isn't  it!" 

"There  isn't  a  thing  in  the  house,  Anthony — 
not  a  thing  to  eat!"  said  Mother. 

He  read  the  telegram  again.  "But  they're 
going  to  the  hotel.  'Kitty  and  her  father  will 
go  to  the  hotel,'  that  is  what  it  says — they  will 
go  to  the  hotel.  You  have  enough  for  John  to 
eat,  I  guess." 

Mother's  round  gaze  rested  on  him,  pity- 
ingly. "You  can't  let  your  own  folks  go  to  a 
hotel,  Father!" 


340         THE  TASTE  OF  APPLES 

"It  isn't  John,"  said  Anthony.  "It  is 
Kitty " 

"It  is  just  the  same,"  said  Mother  firmly.  "I 
know  what  I  mean,  Anthony,  and  you  know; 
you  can't  make  me  comfortable  that  way.  I've 
got  to  get  right  back — ;"  and  she  looked  about 
the  shop  a  little  helplessly  and  sighed,  "I 
wouldn't  mind  so  much  if  he  wasn't  a  million- 
aire," she  said  softly.  "I  was  going  to  have 
cornbeef  for  supper " 

Samuel  plodded  on  over  his  stitches. 

" — and  potatoes,"  said  Mother,  "and  some  of 
that  cabbage  that  was  left  over — it'll  taste  good 
— and  carrots ;  it  don't  sound  right  for  a  million- 
aire somehow !" 

Anthony  looked  at  her  with  the  little  affection- 
ate smile  between  his  eyes.  "Don't  you  worry, 
Mother.  Everything  you  do  will  be  just  right. 
You  will  make  it  homelike  for  them  and  that's 
what  John  wants " 

"I  shall  make  an  apple  pie — "  said  Mother. 
"I  shall  make  two  pies,"  she  added  swiftly. 
"You  can't  tell  what  might  happen." 


THE  SHOP  341 

"It  isn't  Wallace,"  said  Anthony,  smiling. 

"I  shall  make  two  pies,"  said  Mother,  "two 
apple-pies — with  a  good  crust,  upper  and  under. 
Men  folks  like  my  pies — as  a  rule,"  she  added 
modestly. 

She  got  up  and  smoothed  her  apron. 

"Don't  you  worry  about  me,  Anthony.  I 
shall  get  along  all  right.  I  just  came  down  to 
tell  you — so  you'd  get  home,  time  enough  to  put 
on  your  second-best  ones." 

Anthony  took  up  his  hammer  and  began  to 
look  for  pegs.  She  regarded  him  a  minute,  a 
little  pride  in  her  face — "I  don't  know  but  you 
might  as  well  wear  your  best  ones,"  she  said 
slowly — "the  ones  you  got  in  London." 

Samuel  reached  for  another  pair  of  shoes  and 
Mother  went  out. 

The  bell  tingled  behind  her. 

It  tingled  again  for  the  big  man  who  came  in 
and  tilted  comfortably  back  and  watched  An- 
thony's hammer  tap  its  way  around  the  sole. 

"Going  to  keep  on  mending,  just  the  same,  are 
ye«"  he  asked. 


342         THE  TASTE  OF  APPLES 

"Just  the  same,"  said  Anthony.  "It's  my 
business,  you  know — mending  shoes." 

"I  hear  John's  doing  well — *?"  replied  the 
man. 

Anthony  stitched  on,  and  pegged  a  little.  .  .  . 
"He's  going  to  be  married  next  month,  you 
know?"  He  looked  over  his  glasses. 

"That  so!"  The  chair  tilted  itself  a  little 
farther  back  and  the  big  man  looked  at  him  be- 
nevolently, and  the  bell  jingled  again  and  An- 
thony broke  off  to  take  shoes — but  it  was  only 
Simon,  hopping  in 

"Know  what  they  call  ye4?"  he  asked  nimbly 
" — 'Anthony  London!'  I  heard  one  of  'em  as  I 
come  along — Anthony  London,"  he  said. 
"He'd  got  you  kind  o'  mixed  up,  I  guess!" 
Simon  laughed  glibly  and  sat  down.  Samuel 
scowled  at  him  and  went  on  stitching — the  less 
said  about  London,  the  better — in  Samuel's 
eyes.  But  he  was  not  to  escape.  .  .  .  He  was 
to  know  Fleet  Street — as  if  he  had  been  born 
there — Fleet  Street  with  its  whirling,  banging 
and  slamming,  and  shuffling  feet — and  the 


THE  SHOP  343 

dome  of  St.  Paul's  floating  behind  its  feather 
of  smoke.  .  .  .  Samuel  could  not  be  called  an 
imaginative  man,  but  he  saw  the  visions — St. 
Paul's  and  all  London  shaping  themselves  in 
Anthony's  gentle  words — and  he  dreamed,  dully, 
of  a  great,  ever-going  city  across  the  world. 

"I  hear  the  Rich  grind  the  faces  of  the  Poor 
pretty  bad  over  there !"  said  the  big  man,  tilting 
happily. 

Anthony  looked  up.  "I  didn't  see  any  grind- 
ing going  on,"  he  said  with  a  twinkle.  .  .  . 
But  his  face  had  grown  thoughtful. 

"There  are  very  poor  people  in  London,"  he 
said  slowly,  tapping  it  into  the  sole  on  his  lap — 
"poorer  than  anywhere  in  the  world,  I  think." 
He  set  the  shoes  on  the  bench  beside  him. 
"They  have  no  hope,"  he  said. 

"That's  bad !"  said  the  big  man — solidly  and 
comfortably,  tilting  a  little  further  back. 

Samuel  grunted.  Anthony  glanced  over  at 
him.  "Do  the  best  you  can  with  'em,  Samuel. 
Gibson's  hard  on  his  shoes " 

"Drunk  half  the  time !"  said  the  big  man.     "I 


344         THE  TASTE  OF  APPLES 

hear  they're  going  to  take  away  the  property  of 
Lords,  and  so  on — give  it  to  the  Poor.  How  do 
you  think  the  Lords  will  like  that!"  He  asked 
it  ponderously. 

Simon  peered  up;  it  sounded  blasphemous 
and  interesting — and  hopeful. 

Anthony  shook  his  head.  "It  will  be  a  long 
time,  I  think,  before  they  take  it  all  away." 

The  big  man  looked  at  him — suspiciously. 
"I  saw  it  in  a  paper,"  he  said —  "the  same  place 
where  I  saw  about  grinding  the  faces  of  the 
poor.  Did  you  see  any  lords?"  he  asked,  with 
a  little  suspicion  still  in  his  voice. 

"I  saw  one,"  said  Anthony.  He  waited  a 
minute.  "He  had  his  property  taken  away  from 
him — all  his  possessions  taken  away — in  a 
minute — everything." 

"How  did  he  like  that!"  said  the  big  man, 
triumphant. 

Anthony's  eyes  seemed  looking  at  something 
far  away — as  far  as  London,  it  might  be.  "He 
didn't  seem  to  mind,"  he  said.  "He  let  them 


THE  SHOP  345 

The  big  man  stared  at  him.  The  legs  of  the 
chair  came  ponderously  down. 

"Well — I  swunny! — That  beats  me — Never 
minded!"  He  got  up  and  stretched  himself — 
and  looked  at  Anthony.  "Never  minded!"  he 
said — and  went  slowly  out,  turning  over  Lon- 
don in  his  mind. 

Simon  skipped  behind  him  and  the  little  shop 
was  quiet — only  Anthony  London,  maker  and 
mender  of  shoes,  stitching  on,  and  fat  Samuel, 
growing  steadily  serene  in  his  gloom.  .  .  . 
Outside,  through  the  open  window,  they  heard 
the  voices  of  children  running  and  shouting  and 
wearing  out  shoes  for  Anthony  to  mend. 


THE  END 


000  052  681 


